


The Color Gold

by cyanspica



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Typical Violence, Endverse, Episode: s05e04 The End, M/M, Pagan God Gabriel (Supernatural), Sam Winchester Big Bang 2019, Slow Burn, Top Gabriel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-24 06:18:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 54,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17699216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyanspica/pseuds/cyanspica
Summary: Sam should know better than to trust a Pagan. He should definitely know better than to trust the Pagan God of Lies, especially when said god is the same one who once trapped him in a hellish time loop for months on end. Unfortunately, without Dean at his side for running on four years now and the last chapter of the apocalypse drawing closer every day, he doesn't have room to be picky.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so since not everyone has spent six months researching season five canon, here are a few reminders that are probably important for the sake of understand bits of the fic  
> -this fic is set directly after 5.04, assuming that dean never called sam back. this means that anyone who died later on in the season while he and dean were together is assumed to be alive for this fic  
> -this also means that sam does NOT know that gabriel is only posing as loki and is, in fact, an archangel

**2010**

 

                It would’ve been easy to think that the worst part about it all was that Sam didn’t even know it would be the last time he and Dean talked, but it wasn’t. No, the worst part about it all was much subtler. Only Sam knew it, at the end of the day.

                Because the worst part was that when Dean hung up, Sam had really thought Dean would call him back.

                Looking back, he should’ve known it was nothing but blind hope. This wasn’t just one of their bumps in the road. No, this was a wound that’d been long left untreated, a wedge that’d only driven deeper and deeper every time one of them had fucked up.

                Still, even years on, Sam would never be able to shake the feeling that he should’ve done more. He should’ve fought harder. Called back until Dean answered. Traced the phone he’d had called him on. Talked to every hunter in the damn country until someone gave him a lead.

                Whatever was between them was broken, but there had to have been something he could’ve done, even if it just would’ve been slapping duct tape over a leaking dam.

                The apocalypse was a lot lonelier when you didn’t have someone else in the front seat.

 

 

  

* * *

 

 

 

**2011**

 

                It took six months of radio silence before Sam realized that the call he’d been waiting for wasn’t coming. Six whole months for blind hope to fade away, and only a minute of acceptance for Sam to realize that he had absolutely no idea what came next.

                Ever since he’d left Stanford, there’d always been a goal. Find John. Kill Azazel. Save Dean. Kill Lilith. Make sure Lucifer wasn’t let loose. And sure, he’d fucked up every one of those to some degree or another, but at least he’d had something to work towards, someone to work _with_.

Now he had neither.

No leads, no ideas, no one to watch his back—nothing.

                Hell, sometimes he wouldn’t even realize he was holding a second cup of coffee until there was no one else to hand it to.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

                In the end, Sam didn’t have a choice.

                He was going to stop Lucifer, with or without Dean, or he was going to die trying.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

And so that was exactly what Sam told him when he dreamed that night.

“I wouldn’t let you die,” Lucifer reminded him, “And even if you could, do you truly think that’d work like you’d want? Where could your soul go where I wouldn’t be able to find it? Heaven would hand you over, and Hell… well, I think that speaks for itself.”

                So Sam really had even less of a choice than he’d thought. 

                It was easier not to fall asleep.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**2012**

 

                The problem about angels wasn’t that information was scarce. No, it was the opposite. There were centuries and centuries of religion and stories and personal accounts diluting the pool, making even the most basic of information almost impossible to verify.

                When the libraries ran out of contradictions and inconsistencies to give him, he turned elsewhere. Field work—the shady kind. The kind that Dean wouldn’t have ever let him do, apocalypse or not.

For a while, there was a demon—Crowley, he’d called himself—that he’d had a running thing with. Sam would ask about Lucifer, about his powers, his schedule, anything he did, and Crowley would roll his eyes and answer more loftily than any human was capable of.

Crowley had been an asshole, cut and dry, but nearly suicidal enough in his ambition to overthrow Lucifer to take the crown for himself, and self-serving enough for Sam to believe he might be telling the truth whenever he opened his mouth. And he’d answered Sam’s questions, which, as far as Sam was concerned, was enough of a reason to keep him around.

It was valuable, but by the far the most notable thing Crowley had ever told Sam had nothing to do with Lucifer at all. No, it’d been about his brother, mentioned just after Sam had finished his latest interrogation.

“You know, it’d be much easier if both of you would summon me together. It’d cut down the time I spend fielding idiotic questions,” Crowley had offhandedly told him, heaving out a longsuffering sigh.

“Both of us?” Sam had asked, eyes going wide.

“Yes, you and your bow-legged brother. He won’t stop harassing me about the gun—I told him I don’t know where Lucifer hid it, but things like reason and judgment don’t seem to deter him.”

And then he’d been gone with a cloud of red smoke.

Sam hadn’t ever gotten a chance to ask what he’d meant. That had been the last time they’d talked, because the next time Sam tried to summon him, he never showed.

                It was a mystery easily solved, though, because that night in his dreams, Lucifer greeted him with the wry smile of a parent catching their kid with a hand in the cookie jar.

                And with that, Sam was back to square one.

                Long nights spent in libraries, passing out with his face plastered in yellowed books and the writings of long-gone prophets. Going out for fieldwork the second he couldn’t stand to read another word, coming home with rings of bruises around his neck and a hearty concussion to match. Trying to chase down someone to translate sixth-century chicken scratch, or pinpoint where the next volume in an ancient tome might be stashed.

                Sam moved from place to place before _real_ trouble could find him, constantly uprooting, never slowing down, always on the move. Monsters were crawling out the woodwork everywhere. All you had to do to find one was following the closest trail of carnage.

                Sam tried not to think of how that was his fault too.

                He tried not to think about most things, actually. Things that could send him in a spiral, make him was hours pining for another time. Stupid things, like flicking through Dean’s collection of cassettes to find an album he could stand to listen to, that led to one thing, then another, and finally just reminded Sam of just how alone he was in the world now.

                He tried not to think about anything like that too much, but the weight of the phone in his pocket made it harder than it had to be.

 

               

 

* * *

 

 

 

 **2013**  

 

                Sam didn’t even realize he’d stopped looking at mirrors until he caught a glimpse of himself one day in a storefront window, only to find he was a little surprised he still existed.

                He’d lost a lot of weight. Too much to guess at, but it was enough to make his flannel look comically baggy hanging off his pointed shoulders. When had that happened? Another ten pounds and he’d just about look downright skeletal. On top of that, his scruff was bordering on becoming a beard and if the shadows under his eyes were any darker, people were going to start thinking he’d gotten punched. He looked like _he_ wasn’t even sure he still existed.

                Seeing himself for the first time in longer than he could remember was jarring, almost like he’d been dozing off and reality had suddenly snapped back into focus.    

                The haze around him cleared, just a little and, suddenly, he was aware of the snow beneath his feet—but that couldn’t be right, because it’d just been winter, hadn’t it?

                The longer he thought about it, the more uncertain he got, and the more unsettled he became. When was the last time he’d even known what day of the week it was? Or the name of the town he was in? How many days closer to the lights turning off had he gotten?

“Excuse me,” he said, panic driving him to flag down a passing man, “Do you have the date?”

“It’s the… eleventh,” the stranger replied, glancing down at his watch to double-check.

                It only freaked Sam out even more than he found that wasn’t any help at all.

“Of?” he hesitantly prompted, hyperaware of the uncertainty in his voice.

                The stranger’s face pulled into a look of confusion.

“You mean the month?” At Sam’s nod, the man gave him a good look and, probably seeing Sam’s death warmed over look, took a faltering step back. “It’s November.”

“Right,” Sam murmured as he turned away, “Sorry.”

                He wanted to ask about the year too, but that was about as clear of an outright declaration of insanity as you could get, so he bit his tongue. How could he not even know what year it was?

                _The Mayans_ , his mind urgently supplied, though it took him a few more seconds to figure out why. They’d predicted the world to end at the end of 2012, hadn’t they? And he’d sunk months and months into researching that claim, spent weeks checking over his shoulder every second step, only stopping to take a real breath when 2013 had finally rolled around. And Sam was pretty sure he hadn’t missed a New Year’s celebration since then.

                If he’d been paying a little more attention, he would’ve seen the person walking towards him from the other end of the alley. If he were a little less deep in thought, he would’ve seen her first, and been able to bolt before she ever caught a glimpse of him.

                Life was shitty like that sometimes. Even more than usual when you were a Winchester.

                So Sam didn’t look up, and just about collided straight into Jo Harvelle.

                The pieces didn’t click for a moment, and he’d just gotten past mumbling an apology when he looked back up a second time, realization gripping him cold. Jo was looking at him the same way, her hand creeping instinctively towards the waistband of her jeans, and as much as Sam wanted to convince her he was still himself, he was frozen.

“Sam?” Jo finally got out, and it hurt more than he’d thought it would when he realized it was a question.

                What had Dean told them? _Cut and run if you see him, ‘cause there’s no guarantee it’s still Sam behind the wheel? The next time you see him, he could be riding shotgun to the Devil?_

                Sam felt like he was rooted there for what felt like eternity before he finally managed a halting step backwards, breaking him from the spell. He was about to pivot, turn on his heels and run, but she moved faster. Her hand shot out, fingers knotting around his forearm and keeping him static.

“It’s still you, isn’t it?” Jo asked, looking him over. Caution still lingered in her voice, but she sounded surer of herself now. “Did Bobby send you to get his book too?”

                Sam’s expression must’ve been a dead giveaway because Jo’s face softened with sympathy.

“Sorry. Didn’t know you two weren’t talking anymore either.”

“It’s not your fault,” he replied, eyes still glued on the ground. _It’s mine._

                Sam could feel her gaze sizing him up. He could only wonder what she was thinking. _This is the guy who’s got the fate of the world in his hands? Seriously?_ He wouldn’t blame her, either.

                Sam didn’t know what to say. He’d gone so long without anyone recognizing him that he’d kind of forgotten it was even possible.

“How about something to drink?” Jo asked, breaking the silence for him.

                Part of him still wanted to tear away before she could look at him with that all-too-familiar disappointment everyone seemed to reserve just for him. Truly. But part of him missed someone calling him by his real name, not whatever he was calling himself that town. All the parts that came along with it. Someone looking at him, not right through him. Someone who let him know his existence wasn’t accidental, that he hadn’t faded away like a ghost when no one was looking.

“I, uh…” Sam looked down. He should say no. Turn and walk away before he can screw something else up. What he said instead was, “Yeah. Yeah, I could use a drink.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“How are you?” was the first thing Jo asked once they’d settled into a little booth out of the way in the back—though it was blessedly after they’d each gotten down a good deal of bourbon. Sam didn’t think he was equipped to answer many things stone cold sober, and given how Jo was treating her own whiskey, the feeling seemed mutual.

“I’m fine,” Sam glibly replied after another long pull, words ringing hollow enough for even a stranger to hear the lie.

                Jo let it slide without so much as a second look, and Sam’s mouth twisted a little. He’d always known she’d make a good hunter.

“How are things with you?” he asked, not expecting any more of an answer than the one he’d give her. It was just courtesy, never a question asked with any real expectations of a genuine answer.

“Still breathing. I know my mom always thought I wouldn’t be able to hack it on my own, but…”  She paused to take a long swig of whiskey, glaring down at it like she wished it was something harder. Her face was a volatile tangle of emotions that Sam knew better than to ask about, but she still offered a weary, “Well, I’m still here and she isn’t.”

                Sam had gotten just as far as opening his mouth when Jo silenced him with a look.

“If you’re about to tell me that you’re sorry, then don’t. I think you and I have been on both ends of it enough times to know it doesn’t change a damn thing.” She stopped to drink again, eyes staring at her glass like she couldn’t even see it. “I just figured you deserved to know.”

                Sam knocked back the better part of his drink, trying to process that.

                Ellen was good to him—too good to him all things considered, really. would’ve kept his number if he’d just ever called her. But like Bobby and Castiel and Jo and everyone else he’d known, he’d left them. Figured that maybe Dean was onto something, that if he just kept his head down and stayed away from the people he cared about, then they’d stop getting hurt.

                But sometimes, as it seemed, they didn’t.

“I’m sorry,” Sam said anyways, just because he wasn’t sure what else to say. What else he had the right to say. His glass was lead heavy in his hand, but he raised it in something like a salute anyways. “She was one hell of a woman.”

“Yeah,” Jo agreed, a ghost of a smile twisting onto her face. “That’s one way to put it.”

                Her lips curled a little higher, fondness briefly overtaking sorrow. Her eyes flicked to the side to meet Sam’s, and all at once, he was struck by just how much older she seemed. Not physically, necessarily, but in the way she held herself. Talked. Like some of her spunk had been snuffed out over the past few years, left behind someone a little more cynical, a little sharper around the edges.

He wondered just what she’d seen since they’d last crossed paths. He wondered what changes she saw in him, beyond the obvious. He knew better than to ask, though. Chances were he probably wouldn’t like the answer.

“She always liked you, you know. Said you had sense that passed the rest of your family over.” She laughed, and the sound was almost like she’d forgotten how to. “You know, she just about clubbed Dean over the head when she found out that he told you not to call him.”

                Sam wanted to say nothing. He wasn’t stupid. Unless he just wanted to flag over the bartender and ask for the rest of the bottle, there was no way that line of conversation was going to end in anything but bone-deep nostalgia. His need to know was unrelenting though, burning in his chest and clawing its way up his throat.

“How is he?” Sam asked, the words spilling from his mouth before he could stop them. “Have you seen him lately?”

                Jo finished off the rest of her drink without looking at him and flagged over the bartender.

“Leave the bottle,” she told him before he’d even gotten off the cap.

                He gave the two of them an odd look, but seemed to decide that anyone slamming back whiskey at two on a Wednesday probably wasn’t worth fighting with, and left the bottle on the table without another word. Jo poured herself another hearty glass, sighing before finally answering Sam’s question.

“Well, I saw him a lot for a while.” Her smile grew bitter as she looked down into her glass. “And then not so much.”

                Sam was surprised he’d forgotten how much of an idiot Dean could be until then.

                Jo didn’t wait for him to ask though, and by now she had to know anything about his brother’s stupidity that he could tell her by now, so he let her go on.

“Last time I ran into him was four, five months back? He was looking into some demonic omens up in Illinois and I caught him right when he was leaving town. He seemed fine then. A little tired maybe, but that’s part of the job, right?” Jo finished, giving him a pointed once-over.

                More than anything, Sam wanted to leave it there. But the words were already burning in the back of his throat, too thick to swallow down.

“Did he…?” Sam trailed off, the hope in his voice already used up by the second word.

He thought of the last time they’d talked, then of the last time Sam had tried. Of how the burner phone, the last thing Dean had ever given him, was probably sitting somewhere in a dump by now, and found he was already pretty sure he knew the answer to what he’d been about to ask.

                And if he hadn’t been sure, Jo’s expression confirmed it.

“Don’t say sorry,” he said, smiling weakly as he echoed her earlier words. “It’s better like that.”

                Jo gave him a good, hard look and finally shook her head.

“I don’t know, Sam. My mom wasn’t wrong often.”

                And, well, it wasn’t like there was much he could say back to that.

 

 

* * *

 

 

               

                It was actually getting to be a reasonable time of night to drink by the time they’d polished off the bottle, and it wouldn’t have been an exaggeration to say Sam was a little drunk. Enough to forget that the world was crumbling to pieces just outside for the first time in ages. Enough to be able to listen to the hunting stories Jo had amassed since they’d last crossed paths. Even enough to share some of his own from what felt like lifetimes ago, back when he and Dean still came in a duo.

                 Not drunk enough to avoid thinking about how it was funny how he hadn’t thought of those as the good old days until any hope of having them back was gone. But it was better than nothing, and nothing was what Sam had been working with for the last four years.

                He’d take what he could get, even if he didn’t feel like he deserved it.

                Alcohol could only last so long, though, and as midnight rolled closer, the spell started to wear off. A quarter ‘til saw him standing up, guilt creeping in as he thought of how much research he could’ve gotten done in the time he’d taken off.

“I should go,” Sam said.

                He had to wonder just how easy he was to read, because Jo was watching him with an inscrutable vigilance.

“So—where to next for you?” she asked, careful and measured.

“Don’t know yet, but I got what I came here for.” Sam shoved his hands into his pocket, avoiding her gaze. “I heard through the grapevine that Heaven’s short a few weapons. Guess I’m going to see if I can try to verify that, see if anything that went missing might be able to take down an archangel.”

“Sounds like a big job for just one person.”

                It was easy to pretend he hadn’t heard the suggestion in her voice.

“It’s not that bad,” he evasively replied, and Jo’s sigh may have been silent, but he heard it nonetheless.

                Jo stood with him, digging inside her jacket until she came out with a weathered notebook. _BH_ was carved into the faded leather of the cover and beneath it, a newer set of initials— _JH_. She flipped to the back of the book and tore out a sheet, producing a pen and scrawling something onto it.

                Straightening back up, she folded the piece of paper and handed it to him.

“That’s my number. If you need anything—research, hunting, whatever—let me know and I’ll get it done. All you have to do is ask.”

“Thanks, Jo. Really,” Sam responded, not even looking at the paper before moving to put it in his pocket. She reached out and grabbed his wrist, stopping him short until he relented and looked up at her.

“I’m serious. Promise me you’ll call if you need a hand.” Jo looked at him, but there was too much feeling in her eyes for him to meet them for long. “You and I have both been to enough funerals, Sam.”

                Sam knew she hadn’t meant it like one, but he could only hear it as a warning. _Don’t fuck this up, Sam. If you fail, it’s everyone else’s lives on the chopping block. Their blood’s on your hands_.

His eyes fell to his feet, and he shoved the paper into his pocket without a second glance. He didn’t need to drag her into this. She was safer if he never said her name again. _And if he failed, she’d die anyways,_ his mind coldly reminded him.

“I will,” he promised, but they both knew he wasn’t telling the truth.

                But like a true hunter, Jo let him go without another word.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

                Sam spent the next time with a bottle for company, drumming his fingers against the motel table as he looked over the paper Jo had handed him.

                It took half a bottle of whiskey, but in the end, Sam added her name, right under  _Dean Winchester_.

                He owed her that much.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**2014**

               

 

                It took six months and one extremely dubious teleportation spell, but Sam found the weapons. Or found where they were hidden, that was—well, where they _hopefully_ hidden. He hadn’t been chasing down unaccompanied angels for months, grilling them for information only to hit a wall.

So, yes, it was probably true that he wasn’t exactly being cautious as he picked the lock on the kitschy mansion he’d ended up at, snuck in without so much as drawing his gun first.

He didn’t even make it five steps into the foyer before he was being thrown backwards by someone he couldn’t see, trapped with his back to the wall. The force that was holding him there was unrelenting, putting just enough pressure on his throat to come off as a threat.

Sam was weighing his options in an instant.

He already knew he was going against an angel. If he could stay alive long enough to negotiate, he might be able to pull his angel blade, give himself a fighting chance. Of course, that would be useless if his opponent decided it’d just be easier to snap his neck then and there.

                Before he could think any more about it, the angel he’d been chasing strolled out of the shadows into his vision, and Sam’s mind momentarily went blank.

                After all the angels he’d met, he’d been expecting the usual _‘above humanity’_ aura, but this one looked a little like he’d just done a line of coke—a little wild-looking, a little irritated, and entirely human-looking save for the dull Grace-blue glow in his eyes.

“Sam Winchester, I assume?” he drawled in an accent that Sam could only vaguely identify as _British-something._ That was another thing—Sam hadn’t ever heard an angel with an accent. “Never mind. You don’t have to answer. No one else could possibly be desperate enough to break into the house of someone in the possession of a few dozen _very_ _deadly_ artifacts.”

“You knew I was coming?” Sam asked, because unimpressed as the angel was, he didn’t exactly seem surprised.

“Well, I knew I could eventually expect one of the Three Stooges. The only thing that was in the air was which of you it’d be.”

                With a flourish of the angel’s hand, Sam’s feet were back on solid ground—this time untethered. He tested his freedom until he was sure it was complete, then took a half-step towards the angel just to test the waters. The angel’s eyes never left him, but there was no fear in them either.

“It’s probably best that it _is_ you. I hear that you’re the most reasonable of the bunch these days.”

“I try,” Sam replied. Cautiously, he took another step forward. “Do I get your name?”

                The angel scoffed. Apparently, Sam was too much of a nuisance to deal with sober, because the angel moved to the nearest table of alcohol, popped the top from a decanter, and poured himself a liberal glass of whatever was inside.

                It really _was_ strange, seeing an angel look so comfortable in a human’s skin. Unnerving, almost. Sam wouldn’t have known the difference if they’d passed on the street.

“No, you don’t get my name.” He rolled his eyes, stopping only to take a long swig of his drink. “As far as everyone else knows, I’ve been dead for years. I’d like to keep it that way, if it’s not too much of a bother. Now, are we done here?”

“I haven’t even told you what I want yet,” Sam pointed out.

“I’m the proud owner of a good percentage of Heaven’s private armory. You’re in the market for something that can kill an archangel. It’s easy to assume you didn’t come here to enjoy my company.”

                Sam chanced another step. He was almost within stabbing range now, and just desperate enough to think of it as a genuine option.

“I don’t particularly _want_ to help you, but I would if I could. Lucifer might be preferable to Michael in terms of how he treats my brothers, but I’ve been making quite the profit off humans. I’d hate to cut off my preferred source of income. I imagine I want him running the show as much as you do.”

                Sam’s mouth curled into a frown.

“So why can’t you help me?”

“I’m self-centered, not suicidal,” he scoffed, “Of course I didn’t take anything that could kill an archangel. If Michael didn’t go the ends of the Earth to kill me first, Lucifer would come knocking before long—and I’m _done_ with everyone’s family drama. Yours included.”

                Sam tried not to let his dread show. He’d been chasing after _another_ ghost, hit _another_ wall. How much more dead ends could he hit before he ran out of time?

“You must have _something_ ,” Sam protested, denial setting in. “At least something to weaken him.”

“I _had_ things that might have been useful, but they’re out of my hands now.”

                Sam’s knife pressed sharp against his chest.

“Now, I trust you can see yourself out.” Just for a moment, something like regret was plain on his face—the first hint of anything other than shamelessness had seen him wearing until then. “And give Castiel my regards, will you?”

                Sam lunged, drawing his blade. He had no plan anymore, no idea _what_ he was going to do—hope for the best, he figured. See if the angel had a better memory under duress. What was there to lose, anyways? He’d already lost anything that’d mattered.

                The angel saw him coming from a mile away.

                Sam was slammed back up against the nearest wall in a second, the angel’s foreman pressing hard against his throat.

“Did you really think that was going to work?” he asked, patronizing. “What they say about your family is true. You really _are_ incapable of higher thought.”

                Sam couldn’t breathe, but Lucifer’s promise to him echoed loudly in his head.

_Where could your soul go where I couldn’t find it?_

It was a last-ditch effort, but it was all he had. He had to get it out while he still could, before he passed out from strangulation or, worse, the angel just decided to make things easy and snap his neck.

“It’s Balthazar, isn’t it?” he gasped.

                It was a last-ditch effort, but it worked.

                Unbridled surprise flashed on the angel’s face, just enough for his grip to loosen, and just enough for Sam to break free. In a second, Sam swiped up his dagger and had it at the angel’s throat.

                The angel— _Balthazar—_ could only manage more shock for another few moments, but fury was quick on its trail. Sam just dug his blade in a little deeper, daring him to try.

“How did you know?” Balthazar snarled, and Sam was suddenly very thankful he had a knife to the angel’s throat, because if he didn’t, Sam was pretty sure he’d be a pile on ash on the ground by now.

“I didn’t,” Sam admitted, voice cold. “But it was a good guess, wasn’t it?”

“Then humor me,” he replied, even colder.

“I don’t know. Will it make you feel more cooperative?”

“It’ll make me feel less like slitting your throat once your knife half an inch away from my throat.”

                With the way he said it, Sam was sure he didn’t mean it as an empty threat. He still wasn’t sure there was _any_ option where he let Balthazar go and still kept all of his blood inside of him, but he supposed there was no reason for him not to answer.

“I went through something like fifty angels trying to find you,” Sam explained, impatient. “Every time I asked them if they could think of anyone with a bone to pick with Heaven, your name tended to come up right after Castiel’s. With the caveat that you were dead, of course.”

                Balthazar laugh was bitter.

“And I told you that everyone thinks I’m dead a minute after you walked in the door, didn’t I?”

                That wasn’t what Sam had been thinking of.

 _“When Castiel lost focus on his mission, he tried to stop them from taking him away, and eventually, they just took him too,”_ one of the angels had told him. _“Castiel came back with a clear mind, and Balthazar… well, I don’t know what they did to him, but he wasn’t the same either.”_

But it was probably easier for both of them if he just agreed.

“Pretty big clue,” Sam told him, smiling thinly.

“Well, you’ve got me where you want me now.” Balthazar raised a mocking brow. “Now, pray tell, what do you expect to get out of this? In case you’d forgotten, I _can’t help you.”_

“I don’t care if you don’t have the weapons. You have to know something. Or know someone who does. I don’t care what it is—a place, a person, anything. I’m not leaving empty-handed.”

“What, you just expect me to pull something from thin air? I haven’t spoken with anyone with any ties in to Heaven in years.”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Sam darkly told him, digging his knife in just deep enough for a line of blood to well up in its wake.

                Balthazar looked at him with nothing short of wrath, every one of his muscles drawn tight in anger. For a moment, Sam was really half-sure he’d take his chances, try to fight his way out of Sam’s hold. But the resistance in his eyes dimmed after a few long seconds, though it was another few moments before he actually answered, eyes looking at something over Sam’s shoulder.

“I…I know—well, I don’t expressly _know_ him, but I know how you can find him. He might have what you’re after. Or know how to get it, at any rate.” Balthazar tilted his head up, letting the knife dig a little deeper into his throat. “Let me go, and I’ll give you what you need to get to him.”

“How do I know you won’t just kill me?” he asked, dubious.

“Scout’s honor,” Balthazar dryly promised, but the murder didn’t leave his eyes.

                Sam considered him a moment longer, but in the end, he had more to gain than lose. And if nothing else, he trusted that Balthazar wanted Lucifer out of the picture as much as he did. It would be a lot harder to take him down if he was wearing Sam’s skin, after all.

                He dropped his knife.

                Balthazar glowered at him a moment longer, but true to his word, he didn’t smite Sam where he was standing. Instead, he vanished. He was back before Sam could worry he’d been screwed, though, this time with a piece of parchment in hand.

Brusquely, he shoved it at Sam.

“As much as it would’ve delighted me to think of you frantically trying to decipher twelfth century Old Norse for the next four days, I found you my English version. You’re welcome.”

                Sam hardly heard him, too busy scanning over the page. It was impressively yellowed, thin and so brittle Sam was almost afraid it’d fall apart in his hands. One side had jagged torn edges, like it’d been ripped straight from a book. Sam half-suspected that was exactly what Balthazar had done.

“What is it?” he asked, though he was already skimming over the writing.

“It’s a reverse summoning spell,” Balthazar impatiently replied, “Do it right, and it’ll bring you to him.”

“Who’s the _he_ in this equation?” Sam asked, but the question answered itself. There at the bottom of the page, written in loopy cursive, was the name _Loki._ Sam’s mythology kicked in, followed instantly by incredulousness. “You’re sending me to a Pagan God of _Lies?”_

                Balthazar rolled his eyes, swallowing from a wine glass Sam hadn’t even seen him pick up.

“That’s what it says, doesn’t it?”

“What, I can trust him?”

“God no,” Balthazar scoffed, “If I didn’t think you had some small chance to take Lucifer out of the picture, I’d call ahead to ask him to screw you. He may still screw you anyways—which would delight me, by the way—but he’ll know more than I do.”

                The part of Sam’s mind that appealed to logic was already crying out to him that this was a bad idea, but he ignored it. He couldn’t afford to listen to caution often anymore.

“It says only to perform the spell on the eve of the Winter Solstice?”

“My, aren’t you the avid reader?” Balthazar drawled, and Sam was kind of regretting not stabbing him now. Still, he _did_ go on, albeit only after Sam sent him the coldest look he could—even if still sounded irritated as ever. “The Winter Solstice marks the first day of Yule. Unless you’d like to wait until the Summer Solstice, it’s the only time Loki and the other Norse gods takes visitors—and requests from their followers, for that matter.”

“So, what? People show up, eat, and ask for favors?”

“Well, naturally they make offerings first.”

                Sam’s teeth bit into his tongue. That could trip him up.

                But he’d just have to figure that out later.

                Sam looked up, carefully folded the parchment into a neat square, and tucked it gently into his pocket. He’d gotten what he’d come for. Well, not exactly. But he had something new to look towards, and staying moving, making _some_ kind of progress was just as important as anything else.

“Well, it’s been a pleasure,” Balthazar told him, dripping with sarcasm. “Now, the door?”

“I’ll be out of here faster if you fly me out.”

                Balthazar looked like Sam may as well as been strangling him, but he walked to him nonetheless.

                Just before he set his hand on Sam’s shoulder, though, he paused to look at Sam with nothing short of menace, eyes glowing threateningly.

“If you tell him I sent you or so much as give him a hint that you’ve talked to me, I’ll hand-deliver you to Lucifer myself. And trust me when I say that you don’t want to try to call my bluff.”

                Sam believed him but before he could say as much, he was back in the motel he’d come from with the angel nowhere in sight.

 


	2. Chapter 2

  

**December 21 st, 2014**

 

 

                It took Sam all of two and a half days to gather the ingredients, one to collect a variety of offerings, and twelve hours of pacing back and forth in the cramped room he’d rented before he’d made a thorough play-by-play of every possible situation that could arise once he was there.

                He’d thought of everything—what he’d do if Loki just attacked him outright, what he’d say when it was his turn to ask, what he’d do if Loki turned him down.

                The numbers on the clock flipped to ten, and Sam decided he couldn’t stall himself any longer.

                _This is a bad idea,_ his sense of reason kept telling him _._

“Well, so was just about everything else I do nowadays,” Sam muttered, inhaling sharply.

                He steeled himself, then turned to the bowl he’d fixed that morning—a sprig of mistletoe, mead, bloodstone, and something like half a dozen other esoteric ingredients—and pulled his pack of matches, lighting one just to let it fall.

                The alcohol caught fire fast, and Sam drew his knife.

                Carefully, Sam read off the incantation off the parchment Balthazar had given him, tugging up his sleeve once he finished. Cautiously, he lined the blade up with the silvery scar just below the crook of his elbow—the product of two decades of slicing himself with silver whenever his humanity had been in question—and made the cut.

                His blade bit straight into his skin, stinging like Sam had doused the whole cut in alcohol. He hissed, barely able to hold still as blood trickled down his arm, welling up in droplets onto his fingertips.

                Gravity won, and the droplets fell into the smoking bowl.

                For a moment, nothing happened.

                And then golden flame billowed up from the fire, twisting and winding up, higher and higher until they were inches away from touching the ceiling. The room was bathed in gold light, brighter, more intensive than Sam’s eyes could handle. He brought up an arm to shield his face from the heat, and by the time it died down, Sam opened his eyes only to realize he was elsewhere.

                It wasn’t exactly clear where _elsewhere_ was, but it certainly wasn’t his trashy motel room anymore. He could hear people now, smell something other than the stale scent of cigarette smoke.

Sam blinked until his eyes recovered from the blinding flames, and shock set in.

Where he was wasn’t any clearer, but it was gorgeous enough that he almost didn’t care. Arcs of carved marble and a high ceiling gave the whole building a sleek, classical feel. It was just like the grand dining halls he’d seen in movies, only bigger, grander.

                There were dozens, no, _hundreds_ of people seated around a massive oak table that stretched the length of the room, and every inch of the table was stuffed with dishes from every cuisine Sam had ever seen—and more than a few that he hadn’t.

                What caught his attention most, though, was at the very far end of the rooms.

Up on a natural marble pedestal atop a gaudy throne of silver and gold, lounged a face that Sam recognized with all the weight of a stone in his stomach. Clad like he was torn between wearing draped furs and intricately woven fabrics against nothing at all, was the Trickster.

                Fuck. Oh, fuck. Fucking shit.

                And the Trickster—no, _Loki_ , Sam realized with a start—was looking at him like he’d seen something a lot more unexpected than a ghost. It almost would’ve been comical if Sam wasn’t suddenly aware of the very real possibility he was about to get turned into a mule or mauled to death by vampires or whatever else would bring a grin to Loki’s face.

                His fears weren’t eased when the Pagan’s incredulity was replaced by something a lot less than welcoming. Loki looked down at him with a smile sharper than glass and with a snap that sent Sam flinching, the cut on his arm mended itself cleanly together.

“Have a seat, Sam,” Loki sweetly told him, his voice echoing clearly all the way across the hall even over the din like he was two feet away instead of two hundred.

                How the actual _fuck_ had he ended up going to the one ritual of thousands where he knew the fucking god—and had tried to kill him _multiple times?_

It was then that Sam decided his life was a cosmic fucking joke. Not for the first time, of course, but definitely with the most conviction.

                Sam sat down in the nearest chair. It wasn’t like he had much room to maneuver when he’d walked himself into the fucking place. Fuck. This was the stupidest way he could possibly die, and he'd deserve it too. 

                Not daring to look back up at Loki, he looked at anything else. It was clear that the only thing the crowd had in common was a questionable taste in deities—from Sam’s view, at least. He couldn’t imagine that many of them had been put through the same things he had. And if he was wrong, then at least they all shared a common psychopathy.

                The spread of food was equally diverse, from roasted suckling pig to three-tiered chocolate cake and things that Sam couldn’t even name. Everyone around him was eating and drinking ales and wines from glasses that never seemed to empty, but he didn’t make a move to fill the empty plate in front of him, despite the sudden realization that he was running on empty.

“I don’t think he’s called anyone by name the whole night,” an older woman remarked from the other side of the table once he’d finished his analysis. Her smile was warm, but there was a relaxed quality about her and a cunningness in her eyes as she watched him that let Sam know it wasn’t her first time here. “You must have quite the history.”

“That’s, uh… a light way of putting it,” Sam diplomatically answered.

                He must not have been able to bite back his grimace, because now she regarded him with an open curiosity.

“I take that it’s not a pleasant one?”

                Sam thought of the Mystery Spot. Of all the gruesome and creative ways he’d watched Dean die, day after day. How he’d felt when Dean had died that Wednesday, and every day after that he spent mechanically tracking Loki down, and old anger burned hot again in his gut.

                It must’ve been obvious. She only reached out, gently squeezing his hand and blessedly not pressing the topic.

“Have something to eat, dear,” she advised him, smiling kindly. “I expect he’ll get to you last.”

                She was called up not long after that, and if the rate at which everyone but him was getting spoken to, he eventually had to concede that she’d probably been right.

                Sam lasted an hour before his hunger got the better of him. Loki was a Pagan, right? It wasn’t like with faeries or anything where you owed them some kind of life debt if you ate their food. Or so he was hoping, anyways, because there was something within arm’s reach that looked a hell of a lot like avocado toast and it’d been years since he’d actually had real avocado and not the fake green shit that came from a tube.

                He figured there was a good chance he was fucked already whether he ate or not, so after another half hour or so of deliberation, Sam ignored the golden eyes he knew were watching him and just ate his damned toast.

                The night wore on until eventually people were leaving at a faster rate than they were arriving, until finally the last time zone shuttered its doors. One by one, Loki went through the parishioners, and one by one, there was one less person keeping the two of them apart.

                If he didn’t already know just how Loki worked, he would’ve been studying every interaction, trying to figure out how to maximize his chances. But as it was, the screams let him know just when someone had gone a little too far in their requests.

                Sam didn’t look, and he got the impression that it pissed Loki off.

                Before he knew it, before he could figure out what he should say, Sam was the last person left in the room.    

                And then Sam was on the other end of the room before he could realize what was happening, an arm’s length away from the man as he bled out, coughing and wheezing the whole way. Sam’s kneejerk reaction was to back away, but there wasn’t exactly anywhere to go, so he stayed still.

“That’s the sound of someone learning their lesson,” Loki crooned, divulging the information like someone would a particularly interesting piece of gossip.

                Something about that struck Sam the wrong way, and if he really was about to die, then he didn’t want to spend his last words sucking up to the fucker that’d put him through hell for months. So, flatly, he corrected Loki.

“That’s the sound of someone dying.”

“The two aren’t always mutually exclusive,” the Pagan replied in what Sam could only interpret as a warning. His lips curled up with dangerous amusement as he regarded Sam, leaning back further in his throne. With a snap, the dying man was gone to who the hell knew where. The blood, on other hand, didn’t. “So, Sam, you’ve got my undivided attention—start talking whenever you’re ready. I’m _sure_ this will be good enough to be worth waiting for.”

                Sam tore his eyes away from the bloodstain and tried not to grimace as he looked up to Loki.

“Would you believe me if I said it was an accident?”

“Yes, because no one could _possibly_ be so cosmically _stupid_ to willingly come after, what? Five tries to kill me?” His gaze dragged over Sam, and he dryly added, “So, would you like me to walk you out or can you handle that on your own?”

                Sam should’ve jumped at the chance.

And maybe he would’ve the first few seconds after he’d arrived, but the longer he’d stayed, the louder his thoughts had gotten, churning in his mind until he couldn’t ignore it.

                _He can help you. He knew about you. About Dean. He knew something about what was coming—he might know more. He can help you, if you can just find the right words._

                Before Sam could even try to find them, Loki already had him figured him out. The curl of his mouth turned malicious, eyes narrowing in anger.

“I’ve already helped you once, and you have the guts to ask for another favor?”

 _“Helped me?”_ Sam snarled when he finally found his voice again, matching him ounce for ounce. “ _That’s_ what you call killing my brother every goddamned day for _months?”_

“Well, I called it an investment, if you insistent on knowing,” Loki coldly replied, “Didn’t pan out quite like I’d hoped but that’s life, isn’t it?”

“You told me I had to let Dean go when he died, and I _did. I_ didn’t bring him back. He died, and I moved on,” Sam protested, “If it weren’t for the angels, he’d still be dead.”

                Loki stood from his throne and just by the look in his eyes alone, Sam knew he’d said the wrong thing. He crossed the room inhumanly fast and before Sam could so much as flinch away, Loki had roughly grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked his head back.  The Pagan’s teeth were dangerously close to his neck and Sam could feel his breath hissing hot against his ear.

“And if the demon you’d talked to that _same goddamned night_ the hounds got him had taken you up on your offer? You still think you’d be standing here, lying to me about how my lesson sunk in?” His grip in Sam’s hair tightened to painful, and his head was wrenched back further until all of his neck was on display. “And even if that weren’t the case, you’d call sucking some demon bitch dry _moving on?_ Because if you really believe that, you’re a lot more fucked up than I was giving you credit for.”

                Even though Sam towered a full head over him, he suddenly felt a hell of a lot smaller.

“How do you know about that?” Sam asked, hating how weak his voice suddenly sounded.

“I’m the God of Lies,” Loki derided him, “And I know you a hell of a lot better than you think, kid.”

                Sam wanted to tear away, but Loki’s grip on him was inhuman.

“I didn’t have a choice,” he defended himself, even though he’d never been able to convince himself of that very same argument. It was what he’d told himself every time he’d ducked down and chugged Ruby’s blood, and it’d still never once stopped him from feeling guilty afterwards, even beneath the heady power rush he’d gotten so hooked on.

“No.” Loki shook his head. Disappointment diluted his anger now and that, somehow, was just that much worse. “You did. And you chose revenge.”

                Loki searched Sam’s face for a long moment, then let him go. He turned away, and Sam could feel his chance slipping away.

“You don’t want this any more than I do,” Sam desperately called after him. He was chasing after Loki before he could stop to think better of it, “Why help me otherwise?”

                Loki went stiff under his hand, and not for the first time that night, Sam was very aware of the possibility he was about to get creatively dismembered. He was in too deep, too desperate to stop now though, and he let the words spill from his mouth before he could stop them. He’d only dig himself deeper if he started lying now.

“You care, even if you pretend like you don’t. You _help_ people.”

“I have _fun,”_ Loki snarled, trying to correct him, but it was defensive now.

“You try to put them on the right path if you think they’re still worth saving,” Sam pressed on, desperation clear in his voice. “And you kill the ones that aren’t, and you _tried_ to help me.”

                Sam felt like he was suddenly coming apart at the seams. His voice burned like fire and his eyes pricked suspiciously like he was about to cry, but he refused to stop. If he didn’t keep going, Sam thought he’d come apart completely. He had to try. That way, he’d always be able to tell himself that—even if it was from the back of his body and he wasn’t in control any more.

“I don’t want revenge anymore,” Sam pleaded, voice cracking, “I just don’t want to be the reason the world ends.”

“And what do you want me to do about it?” Loki drawled. He still wouldn’t look at him, but Sam had to hope that the fact that he was speaking meant something. “I couldn’t kill Lucifer even if I tried, and I _won’t._ ”

“But you can help me other ways, can’t you?”

“Maybe.” Loki turned to him, eyes regarding him with sharp criticism. “What’s it worth to you?”

                Sam paused for a long moment before finally looking up and meeting Loki with pleading eyes.

“Anything,” he answered, and he’d never meant anything more.

                Loki just shook his head, sighing.

“Wrong answer,” he replied, but there was none of his earlier heat to his voice. He sounded… _tired_ , Sam realized. A bone-deep weary, quiet acceptance kind of tired that Sam felt all the same. _Maybe he does know me better than I think,_ Sam’s mind wryly thought. “Don’t you get that your family’s eagerness to give up their souls is what caused this whole shitstorm to begin with?”

“I know,” Sam replied, and god, he did. It was just different this time. “But there’s no one else to bail me out this time. I don’t care what it costs, and no one else does either. I’ll do it.”

                Something sad flashed in Loki’s eyes that Sam didn’t quite know what to do with, but as it turned out, he didn’t have to. Loki just looked up at the ceiling, staring at it like there was something there that Sam couldn’t see.

“You won’t like it.”

“It’s better than the alternative.”

“It _is_ the alternative,” Loki plainly retorted. “I’ll tell you what I know, and I’ll help you, but when the time comes… if you can’t pull it off, then you say yes.”

                Sam’s eyes widened.

“No more fighting, not even a word but that one,” Loki continued, voice growing more heated, “If you can’t get him to go down, then you tell him yes and let the chips fall wherever they may.”

“Don’t make it that,” Sam begged, “Please.”

                Was whatever Loki could give him worth that? Hell, was anything worth that?

“I’m so tired of watching all of you swim against fate, Sam.” Loki, for the first time, looked as old as he was. He looked like someone who’d seen war. Someone who’d fought through more than his fair share of it, the evidence etched into every line of regret and sorrow on his face. And for the first time, Sam felt like he wasn’t the only person in the room who was making a plea. “I’ll give you one last chance to get out of character, but after that, it’s time to play your role.”

                Sam’s throat felt like it was on fire, and he couldn’t even open his mouth.

                _It could be a trick._ _He could be manipulating you into giving up the one thing keeping you from ending the world, and you wouldn’t even know until it was too late._

                Loki’s face was uncharacteristically serious, no traces of his usual amusement or charm in sight.

“I’m choosing to trust you a second time, Sam. Take my offer or don’t, but don’t make the mistake of thinking that’s a decision I made lightly.”

                And, well, when was the last time someone had told Sam they trusted him?

                It was a stupid thing to trust the God of Lies, but Sam was just desperate enough to do it.

 _And not because I actually trust him to keep his word,_ Sam reminded himself. _I’m just too short on options not to take this, that’s all. Better to have regrets about what you did do than about what you didn’t, right?_

“Alright,” he quietly conceded. He felt more sapped than he had in months, like he was about to keel over. But there was a quiet relief under that, comfort in the fact that there was someone in this with him now. Stupid, since he knew Dean and Cas and Bobby and everyone other damn person in the world was in the same boat as him, but he felt so far removed from them on his best days that… well, it was good to have someone in front of him. Sam looked up and with his voice steadier than it’d been in months, agreed. “It’s a deal.”

                Just for a second, Sam thought he was that same relief on Loki’s face too, but the moment passed so quickly he wasn’t even sure if he’d seen anything at all.

                It wasn’t like he had to think on it, though. Loki crossed the distance between them in a step and then his hand was in front of Sam. Blankly, he stared down at it. By the time he looked back up, Loki’s face had gone entirely back to its usual unconcerned amusement, any traces of seriousness he’d seen moments before vanished.

“What? If you want to kiss me, you’re going to have to work a little harder than that,” Loki told him, his grin deepening at the way Sam’s mouth worked wordlessly for a moment.

“It’s not that,” Sam weakly defended himself, although yes, it’d _kind of_ been that. Or that’d been closer to what he’d been expecting, anyways. Hastily, he tried to amend his words. “I mean, look at all this. A handshake just seems kind of out of character, that’s all.”

“What can I say? I’m a gentleman at heart.”

                Sam looked back down at Loki’s hand. He’d come too far to turn around now. He was getting too close to turn back.

                He took Loki’s hand.

                It was like touching fire, hot and intense and heady and Sam could feel offshoots of pure energy creeping up his arm like vines. Loki’s veins grew golden and the gold flowed from his hand up into Sam’s until his blood glowed gold beneath his skin and only when Sam was sure he was going to pass out from the rush did Loki let go.

                Sam was only aware he’d fallen into him when Loki stepped back, hands still firmly holding Sam up by his biceps. If he were any less dazed, he probably would’ve been embarrassed, but as it was, he could only be surprised that he was still breathing.

                Even the dredges, the unintentional runoff from Loki’s power was a hundredfold stronger than he’d ever felt, even at the bottom of a bottle of blood. It was only then that it hit him that he’d really come to bargain with a _god,_ and realized just how much worse things could’ve gone.

                Dazedly, he looked up and tried to bring himself back down to Earth. 

                Loki took in a deep breath, then met Sam’s eyes.

“There’s a set of rings,” he begun, and that was that.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

**December 22nd, 2015**

 

              Sam was in bed when he woke up. 

              He didn’t remember falling asleep.

              Groggily, he threw off the covers and stood, looking around the room. Hsis mind was a mess of half-forgotten memories and phrases that only started to come together when he tripped over his blankets and came face-to-face with the sigil he’d painted into the floor.

              Slowly, his mind managed to make sense of the night before. Seeing the Trickster—no, _Loki._ Nearly getting skewered by a Pagan. Their deal. Sam looked down to his wrist, the memory of their handshake burning in his mind. The veins in his wrist pointedly began to glow a dim gold, twisting and overlapping under his skin in an intricate pattern.

              Sam tentatively ran his fingers over the skin. It was abnormally hot to the touch, but nothing else was out of the ordinary. He dropped his hand and after a moment, the glowing subsided.

              His memory didn’t tell him how he’d ended up back in his rooms, but he supposed he didn’t need to know. He remembered everything Loki had told him about the rings, and that’d been what he’d gone there for.

              He stood, mind feeling marginally clearer now. A cold shower in mind, Sam almost made it to the bathroom before his phone disrupted him, ringing petulantly on his nightstand.

              For a moment, Sam froze, his mind betraying him, thinking of Dean. Reality follow fantasy too fast for him to get his hopes up though, and he staunchly tried to crush any thoughts of his brother as he moved towards the phone.

                Telemarketer, he figured. He hadn’t even given his number to a single other person in the month or two since he’d bought the new one. But sometimes strange things happened, and maybe someone actually needed him on the line. He gave them the benefit of the doubt and picked it up.

“Hello?” Sam asked, voice still bleary with sleep.

“Did you just wake up?” a woman asked on the other end, “It’s two in the afternoon, dude.”

                It took Sam a second to realize he recognized the voice, and another five or so to get over it.

“Jo?” he asked, confusion in his voice.

“Yeah? What, you expecting someone else?” Sam could hear the grin in her voice. “Should I call back?”

                Sam dropped his phone from his ear to look at the screen and confirmed that, yes, Jo Harvelle was on the screen in bold letters, under the same number he’d saved months ago. He lifted the phone back up to his ear, mouth pressed into a hard line. Already, he was running through a checklist of creatures that could pull this kind of stunt off.

“How’d you get this number?”

“What do you mean?”

“I never gave it to you. I just saved yours, so how’d you get mine?” Sam repeated, voice hard.

“Were you wasted last night or something? You called me, remember? Asked me to watch out for weird plagues cropping up? Any of this ringing a bell?”

                Jo’s voice was confident enough that she was making _Sam_ doubt his own story

“Hold on,” Sam hesitantly replied, briefly clicking away to check his call log.

                Her story checked out—he’d called her at nine that morning, and they’d talked for three minutes and forty-one seconds. Sam waited a few seconds, half-expecting the memory to resurface with that as a refresher.

                Only it didn’t.

                The last thing he could still remember was Loki looking at him, _“I’ll get a jumpstart, see what I can find. Now get some sleep. You look like shit.”_

                And then he’d snapped, and the next thing Sam had known, he’d been waking up.

                It was two thirteen now, and sunlight streamed through the shitty, moth-eaten motel curtains.

“Sam?” Jo asked after he’d spent a moment too long thinking. Her voice was prodding, and a little careful. “You still with me?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam replied, shaking his head. Best to play along for now, he figured. And besides, it was good to hear her voice, regardless of the circumstances. A little worrying, but not enough to say anything. “Sorry. Just running short on coffee.”

“You sure? Cough twice if you’re being held captive.”

                She was probably only half-joking, but Sam laughed anyways.

“I’m fine,” he reassured her, even though he wasn’t entirely convinced of it himself. “Just tired.”

“If you say so.” There was the sound of papers shuffling from across the phone before she spoke again. “I ran it by a few guys, but your problem’s that there’s too many places for you to check out. There’s a new swine flu outbreak in a new town every other day—and that’s not even counting all the other little virus cocktails that have been cropping up for years.”

“But no one’s gotten on it?” Sam asked, frowning.

“Of course they have. Problem’s that the incubation time means that whatever fuck’s behind this is long gone by the time anyone rolls around. And it’s not exactly healthy for us to be poking around places filled with sick people. We’re already too short on numbers to risk sending anyone out.”

                Sam drummed his fingers against his thigh, trying to figure out what he was supposed to do with the information. It matched with what Loki had told him last night, but if Jo was right, then it was going to be a lot harder to track the fucker down than he’d thought.

                Maybe Loki would know something he didn’t?

“Alright. Thanks, Jo.” Sam glanced at the door. “Text me the places your guys picked out for you?”

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re gonna check it out,” Jo critically replied.

“It’s in the cards,” he noncommittally answered, “I’m still thinking on it.”

                Jo sighed.

“Just don’t do anything stupider than usual, alright?”

“I’m the smart one, remember?”

“Then you’ll _call me_ if you need another set of hands.”

                With that, Jo hung up.

                Sam looked down at the phone in his hands, considering it for a long moment before setting it back down. He’d come back later to check what she’d sent. The shower was calling his name, cramped and shitty as the water pressure was.

                Twenty minutes later saw Sam getting out of the spray, feeling cleaner than he had in weeks.

                He went through his usual routine—brushed his teeth, ran his hands through his hair until it was relatively untangled, splashed water on his face until the last dredges of sleep left him. And then as an afterthought, Sam wiped the steam off the mirror and gave himself a good look.

                Fuck.

                Apparently, Sam hadn’t gotten around to cleaning himself up when he’d had his little memory blackout, because Loki was right.

                He _did_ look like shit.

                It took five minutes of searching to find it after how long it’d been neglected, but after another five, Sam left the bathroom looking a little less like someone everyone purposely avoided looking at.

“There’s the pretty face I know,” Loki crooned as Sam walked back into the motel room.

                Sam, who had very much not been aware that he had company, was thankful his gun was not within reach. Somehow, shooting the Pagan didn’t seem like something he’d take to very well, instinctive or not. So he avoided shooting Loki. He did not, however, avoid from nearly pissing himself and cursing loud enough to wake whoever was in the adjacent rooms.

                Loki— _the fucking bastard_ —just smirked.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Sam snapped, suddenly very aware that the shitty motel towel wrapped around his waist was not covering all that much.

“I’m here to touch base,” Loki casually replied, very much like he hadn’t snapped into Sam’s room while he’d been in the shower. “I told you I was going to help you, and _I_ look after my investments. So, consider me your personal keeper until I satisfy my side of our deal.”

                Sam shifted on his feet, eyeing his duffel.

“Okay, well, can you help me facing the other direction?” he asked, hand tightening on his towel.

                Loki thankfully obliged, but not without rolling his eyes first.

                It took longer finding a shirt and pair of jeans that wasn’t about to fall apart at the seams than Sam wanted to admit, but he did it. Barely.

“My… friend Jo called,” Sam conversationally remarked as he pulled on his shirt. He stared down at a flannel for a moment, then remembering how much more skeletal they made him look, put it aside. “She said she was going to text me a few places where we might find a lead.”

“She moves fast, huh?” Loki hummed his approval. “Well, I’ll scope out wherever she pointed you towards when I’ve got a second. Doubt it’ll lead to anything, though. Pestilence is usually long gone by the time his little gifts started to show.”

                Sam paused, twisting to look over his shoulder.

“You knew she was going to call?”

“Mm. Called her myself after you passed out.” Loki dismissed the anger on his face with an unconcerned wave of his hand, justifying himself with a nonchalant, “Not many of my friends are hunters for obvious reasons and, well, it pays to have people on the frontline. Figured she was good a person as any to keep us in the loop with your old hunter pals.”

                It was harder to stay angry when Loki was making so much sense, but Sam was well-practiced in that respect. Still, it was hard to sound anything but petulant when he still objected.

“I wasn’t going to call her.”

“But you wanted to,” Loki countered, not even courteous enough to humor Sam by wording it as a question. “No one forced you to keep her number lying around.”

                Sam wanted to be defend himself, but Loki hadn’t left him any room to argue back. He settled for gritting his jaw, ignoring the rising urge to see if he could get away with sucker punching a Pagan.

                It would’ve been easy, since Loki wasn’t even bothering to look at him. No, instead the Pagan was frowning down at one of the books Sam had left on his nightstand.

                It kind of made Sam want to sucker punch him more.

“Don’t worry,” Loki absentmindedly added, “You can get your misery hard-on back up once I’m gone, but as long as I’m around the whole self-imposed exile thing is over.”

                Sam didn’t even get the chance to mount a protest before Loki finally looked up.

                With a pointed look and a raised eyebrow, he swept his arms around the room, and cut whatever Sam had been going to say short.

                Until then, Sam hadn’t even noticed that he’d kind of trashed the place.

Half-eaten takeout and nowhere short of fifty empty coffee cups sat discarded in a pile on the table, dirty laundry littered the floor, and balled up papers filled just about every inch of counter space. And that wasn’t even to speak of the motel itself, which, on top of literally crumbling to pieces in places, smelled so strongly of mold and cigarette smoke it was a miracle Sam hadn’t up and developed asthma.

                Okay. So maybe Loki kind of had a point, but still.

“I’ve been too busy to run credit scams,” Sam defensively replied. He gave a little half-shrug, not meeting Loki’s eyes. “And it’s not too bad once you get used to it.”

“You’ve seriously been living like this?”

                Loki swept his eyes around the room once more time, and for a split second, there was something other than nonchalance, and Sam… well, he almost thought he looked sad.

                His practiced swagger was back just as quickly as it gone away though, and Sam was more or less convinced he’d projected it or something by the time Loki spoke again, easy as ever.

“Well, my blood sugar’s getting low. How’s breakfast sound?”

                Sam didn’t even get a chance to agree before Loki snapped his fingers.

 

~~

Breakfast for Loki meant pancakes—or maybe waffles—drowned in too much strawberry syrup and whipped cream to be identifiable anymore. For Sam, it was the scrambled eggs and toast he’d ordered on second thought after the withering look Loki had given him when he’d asked only for a black coffee.

                When the plate came out, Sam kind of just wished he’d taken his chances. It was more food than he’d had in one sitting in months. There was never time to sit down and just eat anymore. Usually, it was a good day if he remembered to grab a sandwich with his coffee.

                So he spent most of breakfast shoving his eggs around on his plate, waiting for Loki to finish. There were a hundred and one questions on his mind now, and the only person who could answer them was ignoring him on the other side of their booth with a copy of The National Enquirer in his hands. Breakfast was easily the least of his concerns.

“Sam, with the way I can feel you looking at me, I’d be calling the cops if I hadn’t come here with you,” Loki finally spoke up. His eyes flicked up from the front of page of his tabloid, their gold color intensifying until they glowed, almost imperceptibly in the washed-out diner lights. “Now eat.”

                It obviously wasn’t a request, so Sam dropped his head and methodically got to work forcing down his plate’s contents. He didn’t even taste them.

                Finally, Loki just dropped the paper to the paper with a heavy sigh. Sam felt like squirming under the stare sent his way, relieved when the Pagan finally gave up with a roll of his eyes and leaned back.

“Seriously, kid. Just being near you is bumming me out..”

                Loki took Sam’s half-confused, semi-offended silence for an invitation to keep talking.

“I mean, can you at least _try_ not to act like a lost puppy? It’s killing my vibe.”

“Can you at least tell me why we’re even here?” Sam shot back, a little sharply now that he’d found his voice. “I can feed myself just fine.”

                Loki’s eyes pointedly swept over his baggy clothes, patronizing Sam all the way from the haughty slant of his shoulders to the crooked arch of his brow.

“Oh?” he asked, not an inch short of cruel. The condescending little curve of his lips only sharpened when Sam said nothing—it wasn’t there was anything he _could_ say, not when Loki was _right._ “Get it now? There’s no point in wasting time chasing down primeval entities if my investment’s two seconds away from keeling over from starvation.”

                Loki leaned over to snatch a piece of Sam’s toast, probably just to spite Sam.

“That’s actually kind of Famine’s thing, just FYI. And while I’m sure you’ve already got a nice little cocktail of issues stewing up there for him, I’d really rather not give him anything else to work with.”

                Sam stabbed through what was left of his egg and said nothing.

“At any rate, I’m planning on saving that one for last,” Loki offhandedly told him, eyeing his stolen piece of toast suspiciously. He popped open a packet of strawberry diner-jam and smothered it in jam, then with a second pack before he finally found it palatable enough to pop it into his mouth. “Mm. Not looking forwards to seeing _him_ again.”

“Why? Worried he’ll make you go hungry too?” Sam shot back.

                He said it more out of a feeling of obligation to defend himself than to actually try to get a reaction, but it had just that effect. Loki’s face screwed up with something Sam couldn’t put a name to. Not quite fear, not quite sadness, but something almost between the two.

“You’re lucky I like my dates with a mouth on them,” Loki just told him once he’d wiped the look off his face, his grin nothing but teeth.

Sam didn’t really feel lucky, but he kept silent for his own sake. Even when Loki sounded playful, Sam was never totally sure he was a step from getting sucker punched. There was too much teeth under all his charm for Sam to let down his guard, no matter how much a well-placed line and a magnetic smile might made him want to every now and then.

                This was the same thing that’d made him watch Dean die a hundred times over. Losing sight of that would be just about the stupidest thing he could do, if not downright suicidal.

“How do you even know about this?” Sam asked with a shake of his head once he’d refocused, ignoring Loki’s comment. “I’ve spent years looking and found a hundred things that might be able to kill him, but nothing I could ever get my hands on. And I definitely never ran into anything about opening a backdoor to Hell—not one to do with anything you told me, at least.”

“Backdoors are kind of my thing, in case you hadn’t noticed,” Loki replied, evading any meaningful answer.

                His words were airy, but the look he was giving Sam was anything but—challenging, like he was just daring Sam to push the subject.

Sam looked away.

                He wanted to ask.

Really, how the hell did Loki know this? If he’d known Balthazar, must’ve had at least _some_ inkling of an idea of what was coming at the Mystery Spot, then he had to have _some_ kind of tie to Heaven. An ally, an informant—Sam had no idea what, but he had to know _someone._

If Sam had spent years digging for something like this and found nothing, then there was no way it was a secret Heaven was handing out for free.

_Or maybe it isn’t real at all,_ the cynical part of Sam’s mind supplied, _and you’re just getting tricked into going on a goose chase._

                If Sam had more time, he probably would’ve put his money on the latter. But desperation was a strange drug. He needed something concrete to work towards. _Something_ to believe in. Even if that faith might be placed in the worst place possible.

                He could hear Dean’s voice in his head now, clearer than it’d been in years.

_The God of Lies—really, Sam? Haven’t we been through this already?_

                Sam looked away.

“Now that that’s out of the way,” Loki breezily continued, leaning over to spear a bite of Sam’s eggs. He chewed lazily for a moment as he thought, eyes on the ceiling. “In terms of order, I’m thinking… Death, Pestilence, War, Famine. Doesn’t account for any hot tips we might get along the way, but—”

“Death?” Sam interrupted, disbelief written in his face. “You want to take on _Death_ first. You don’t think that’s endgame material?”

“Yeah,” Loki replied, raising a brow at Sam like he was the absolutely insane one between them. “He and I go way back. It’ll be a piece of cake.”

                Sam resisted the urge to faceplant into the table.

Christ. He was going to die before he even found Lucifer— _again._

                He grabbed his coffee and took a long swig, wishing he’d ordered it Irish. He couldn’t tell whether or not Loki would laugh or slug him if he spiked then and there, so his flask remained firmly in his pocket, but Sam could at least wish.

“You’re insane.”

“And you’re a _Winchester,_ which means this probably doesn’t even break into the top ten of the stupidest shit you’ve pulled.”

                Sam was just about to argue against the validity of that claim, because while, okay, yes, his family had some seriously stupid shit under their belts, this was on an entirely different level. And that was _with_ a Pagan for backup, _and_ assuming said Pagan was fully on his side with no tricks to pull.

                Loki must’ve been able to tell he was about to end up on the wrong end of Sam’s reasoning because he just waved a dismissive hand.

“Oh, calm down. He’s the only one that’s _not_ going to be trying to kill us.” It took a second of thought, but Loki’s mouth slowly pulled into a frown. “Well, probably.”

_“Probably?”_

“I’m assuming whatever Lucifer’s got him under with isn’t strong enough to _totally_ control him, and, well... yeah, probably not. Lucifer’s not half as good at spell work as he likes to think he is. Besides, like I said, Death and I go way back.”

“You’re friends?” Sam flatly repeated, still trying to wrap his head around the idea.

“Well, _friends_ might be too strong of a word,” Loki admitted, “I don’t think he really has friends. Guess it’s a side effect of knowing you’re gonna kill everyone you meet—I don’t know. Feel free to ask him for me.”

                Sam would rather die before he did, and it seemed like there was pretty good chance that was in the cards as it was. He resisted the urge to drop his head into his hands.

Barely.

“Well, since you haven’t suggested it, I’m gonna guess we can’t just ask him nicely to pop a cap in Lucifer’s head?” Sam glumly asked, poking at his food.

“Well, you’re welcome to ask if you’ve ever wanted to know if Death is capable of laughter,” Loki deadpanned. A second later, his eyes went wide. “Wait, actually, I take that back. _I_ want to know. Forget what I just said—that’s a _great_ idea, Sam! Why hasn’t anyone else thought of it yet?”

                Sam wondered if throwing food at a god was considered sacrilege.

                But before he could make the probably poor decision to find out, Loki’s eyes were narrowing in thought, head tilting like he was listening to something Sam couldn’t hear.

                His odd expression was gone in a few seconds, faster than Sam could decide to ask.

                Still, _something_ must have happened, because Loki stood and dropped a few bills on the table, throwing on his jacket from where he’d left it draped on his chair.

“Something’s going on that I’ve gotta take a look at.”

“What is it?”

                Loki shot Sam an impatient look.

“I don’t know yet. That’s why I’m going to take a look.”

“Well, when are you coming back? What am I supposed to do?’

“I don’t know! Drink. Get laid--you look like you could use that, actually. Go bash some skulls in. I’m not your mother—do whatever you want,” he scoffed, rolling his eyes, “If you need something to do, I’ll text you a list of some of the ingredients I’ll need to bring Death out to play, save me the time it’d take to track them down myself.”

                And then, before Sam could get a word out, Loki blinked out of existence.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

                After Sam asked for the list later that night, he thought he was probably lucky that Loki only took two texts to mock him for choosing work over going out to get laid.

Dean probably would’ve taken three.

 

 

* * *

 

Sam decided it was time to move on.

                He’d spent more than a couple weeks holed up in this particular motel and in his experience, if he hung around much longer, someone would notice.

                Still, Sam packed up slowly. He had no idea where he was heading to, but that was almost part of appeal. All he really wanted right now was to go on a long drive. No destination, nowhere he needed to be right then—just him and the empty road.

                More had happened in the past week than in the past four years put together. Sam needed a few hours just to sit somewhere and work through it all.

                And, yeah, maybe he needed a few more to fully remind himself that whatever crush he may have harbored on the Trickster— _Loki—_ belonged in the past, and that was where it needed to stay.

                (Sam remembered the college where they’d met, how Loki had snarked and flirted at him. How Sam had looked over his shoulder as they were leaving, eyes going to the illusions that still hadn’t disappeared even after they’d staked him. He’d left right behind Dean anyways, and never said a word when the local papers never reported finding one last body on campus).

                It got a lot easier to leave in the past when Sam remembered the Mystery Spot.

                Still.

                The last thing he wanted was to give Loki _more_ ammunition against him because, yeah, he was hot—Sam would allow himself _that_ much—and maybe he was flirty and charming and coy one second, but the next he’d be someone else entirely. A sadistic asshole, putting Sam through hell day and day again like it was all just a _joke_.

                Even if Sam wished that he’d learned the lesson then.

Back then, it still would’ve been enough to save him from all of this.

Maybe Loki really had been right.

                Sam finished packing.

He was halfway out the door when he noticed that the book Loki had been looking at earlier was still sitting open on his nightstand. Dropping his duffel in the doorway, he circled back to pick up, giving the gilded title a brief glance— _A Brief History of the Archangels._

Sam considered it for a moment, picked it up and took a glance at where Loki had left off.

                The painting caught Sam’s attention first, sweeping silver wings dominating the page. It wasn’t one had seen before, surprisingly enough, but a glance at the caption told him why. He’d always skipped to the sections on Lucifer, sometimes Michael, but this caption read _Gabriel, the messenger of God._

“Yeah, and where the hell are you now?” was all Sam muttered before he shoved the book away and headed out the door.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**“** _Pig’s blood,”_ Loki texted him, seconds after he’d laid down that night. “ _At least a quart.”_

Sam didn’t even pretend he was pissed at being bothered. He just threw off his covers and started to get dressed—never mind that he’d spent the whole day driving.

                It was always easier to stay awake when he had something to do.

 

 

* * *

 

  

**January, 2015**

****

_“It’ll be a piece of cake,”_ Loki had said, hardly more than a few weeks ago.

                Sam could remember it clearly now, because somehow, he’d thought that Loki had meant a little less literally. But, no, they were standing in an abandoned church—because _atmosphere,_ Loki had told him when he’d asked—and Loki was holding a real, tangible cake.

                Sam couldn’t believe this was how he was going to die.

“You finished with your sigils?” Loki asked, sighing dramatically.

“Why can’t _you_ draw them?”

“Because I’m not human, genius _._ Only way I go out is in a pool of my own blood. No disease, no old age—Death exists for your kind’s benefit. Not mine. He won’t come to anyone but you.”

                It was a perfectly reasonable explanation, but Sam still couldn’t help but to feel a little pissed. Loki was perched up on the half-decayed pulpit where all he had to do was hold the cake— _trust me, Sam, it’ll come in handy—_ and _he’d_ gotten stuck with the unenviable task of actually summoning Death.

“Will you at least explain the cake to me now?” Sam asked, irritated. He figured he at least deserved to know why he was going to die over a cake.

                Sam definitely didn’t think Loki looked better than usual, even with his dressy clothes—nice jeans, a crisp white button up, and a leather jacket—and he certainly didn’t feel a little tacky in comparison with his usual flannel and jeans.

                He dropped his head, intently scraping his black chalk against the hardwood.

“You’ll see,” was still all Loki gave him.

                The piece of chalk in Sam’s hand snapped. He put the pieces next to the half-dozen others and pulled a new stick from the pile.

                It was another fifteen minutes before he finished, then five more before he was fully satisfied his sets of sigils matched perfectly with the guides Loki had drawn for him.

“Done?” Loki asked when Sam finally straightened. Loki seemed to already know the answer—or maybe he’d gotten too impatient to accept any answer but yes—because he slid off the pulpit to come inspect Sam’s work. He walked in a slow circle around the sigils, inspecting each one before he finally nodded his approval. “Good to know you can draw inside the lines.”

because he slid off the pulpit to walk to Sam, cake still in hand. He stood beside him for a moment, eyes carefully looking over all the sigils and their counterparts before he finally gave a nod of approval. “Good job.”

                And then he reached into his coat and pulled out the most terrifying-looking dagger Sam had ever seen, and _that_ was saying something. It was wickedly curved, warped and notched by time. Loki had told him once it was older than he was. It didn’t just look older than he was, though. No, it looked like it was the first known tool in existence.

                Sam was kind of afraid he’d get tetanus just by touching it.

                His eyes didn’t move from the knife, but his hands were frozen at his sides.

                Loki caught on after a moment, because he dropped the dagger to his side, silent until Sam looked up to meet his eyes. He was almost surprised at what he found—there was nothing mocking in them, no sign of his usual snark or haughtiness. He was serious, nothing but sincere.

                It was like looking at a stranger.

“You’re going to be fine, kid. I promise.”

                Sam still wasn’t sure he was convinced, but Loki wasn’t done either.

“Touching you when it’s not your time would go against the natural order, and I know his well enough to know that he’s got a hard on for that.” Loki’s lips twisted into a smirk. “Nothing’s going to happen, and even if he were to try, I’m here, remember?”

Sam knew that shouldn’t have been reassuring—and sure as shit not from the _God_ of Lies—but, well, he didn’t exactly have the best track record to begin with.

“Right, all five feet of you,” Sam tried to joke, doing his best to force a smile.

“Oh, I’m not in this body for that kind of inches,” Loki crowed back, which Sam entirely pretended that he hadn’t heard as he reached out to take the dagger because, yeah, that was something he could definitely _not_ think about later.

                Sam’s face hadn’t tinged a shade of pink, so the only reason he turned was to face the circle.

                Bringing the dagger up to the crook of his elbow, he steeled himself, then jerked it across. An arc of blood misted up from the cut, all landing firmly within the sigils.

                Almost instantly, all the breath was knocked from Sam’s lungs.

                Sam went dizzy, all of him feeling light. He swayed blearily to the side, Loki’s hand darting out to steady him. He felt weightless, like a fleck of dust on the wind. Like if Loki let go of him, he’d start rising and just never stop.

                _Maybe it’s the blood loss,_ Sam’s mind supplied, but even it seemed far away.

                And then he _understood_ , saw it, all of it—Earth, a tiny, meaningless rock in the endless, ever-growing expanse of space, the only planet he’d ever known in a galaxy of equally unimportant rocks—he saw, he saw _himself_ , not a drop of water in an ocean, not even a molecule among so many others, desperately trying to leave a mark on a place that would forget his existence seconds after he disappeared—and then the understanding, the memories from billions of years of watching was gone.

                The feeling, though? That stayed.

                Sam was nauseous, and when he came to Earth, all that was keeping him upright was the arm Loki had looped around his back while he’d been drifting among space.

                Still dizzy, Sam had a hard time making out the man that was standing in front of them, dark eyes watching them both. He was grateful that Loki took it upon himself to talk for him, because he wasn’t sure he’d be able to manage even a few words, let alone the _right_ ones.

“Long time, no see, huh?” Sam heard Loki ask, sounding like he was actually _pleased_ to see him. And not for the first time, Sam had to wonder just _what_ their history was—hell, just what _Loki’s_ was. “It’s been a while since we last caught up.”

                Sam forced himself to stand up on his own, swallowing hard as he got a better look at the man. He looked more like a skeleton than a man, nothing but pallid skin stretched tight over harsh angles and jutting bones, but he was styled as well as anyone Sam had ever seen. There was an aura about him too, one that made it impossible for Sam to pull his eyes away.

                _No matter how things end, no matter when they end, this is the last face you’ll see._

                Sam tried not to shiver, thankful that Death’s attention seemed to be centered solely on Loki—at least for the moment, anyways.

“That would be the case, wouldn’t it?” He sounded almost… _surprised._ That was something Sam had never expected to hear from Death’s voice. “I’d almost stared to think you’d slipped away without my notice.”

“Oh, no, everyone’s gonna know when I go. You can count on that.”

“I don’t suppose I should tell you I look forwards to it?” Death asked, arching a thin brow.

                Loki just smirked, then raised a hand and snapped.

                A table materialized from nothing between them, three seats appearing with it. Loki hooked one with his foot, spinning it around and sinking down onto it with his legs spread wide. He set down his cake too, and with another snap, the side closest to Death filled with cutlery.

“I know you prefer salty over sweet, but I figured I might as well play to my strengths,” Loki remarked, motioning towards his cake. “ _Fragelité—_ it’s hazelnut meringue and coffee buttercream. I was gonna go with strawberry-something, but I didn’t think you’d appreciate all the artificial flavoring.”

                Death considered Loki and the cake for a moment, then took a seat. Not wanting to be the last one left standing, Sam was quick to follow suit, sinking into the chair beside Loki.

                Deftly, Death cut into the cake, and Loki’s eyes flicked to the side, pointedly meeting Sam’s.

_“See?”_ Loki smugly asked, but his mouth never moved— _and what the hell, had he just talked directly into Sam’s mind?_  Apparently, he’d heard that even without Sam saying it aloud either, because he just smirked and silently answered with, _“I can do all sorts of tricks, kiddo.”_

                Fuck. Sam was so screwed.

“You must know by now that Lucifer has me bound to him, so I suppose I can assume why you’re here,” Death remarked, his voice plain, almost disinterested. He wasn’t even looking at either of them—no, he was too busy cutting himself a slice of cake to bother. “I tend to avoid asking questions, but I have to admit I’m curious. If not his, then whose side are you on?”

                Loki bristled.

“I’m not on anyone’s side.”

“If you’re here at all, then you have a side. If I’m going to help you, I’d at least like to know who’s getting something out of the situation.”

“I don’t _do_ sides,” he persisted, voice growing terse.

“Loki,” Sam whispered, trying to calm him down before he could say something stupid and get them both snapped into an early grave. Unsurprisingly, he was ignored.

                By Loki, at least.

                Death heard, and for the first time, his gaze turned to Sam. He looked half-surprised to see him, almost like he hadn’t even realized he was there until just then. Sam’s heartbeat slowed to the molasses, tongue going rock heavy in his mouth. It only could have been a few seconds, but it felt like eternity before Death finally turned back to Loki, curiosity clear on his face.

“Hello, Sam. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” he asked, not unkindly.

                “ _But we’ve never met,”_ Sam almost answered, but the words never made it out of his mouth. Realization hit him. If everything Loki had told him was true, then they _had_ already met, hadn’t they? Sam had died once before, a lifetime ago. He’d bled out in Dean’s arms, good and truly died.

                Even if Dean had made sure that it hadn’t stuck.

Christ.

It still _felt_ like he’d died for good all the way back then. The person Sam had been back then sure as hell wasn’t the one he saw when he looked in the mirror now.

His eyes dropped to his lap.

“Yeah. It has, huh?” Sam quietly answered, more to himself than either of them.

                Death leaned back in his chair, and his eyes went back to Loki. He arched a brow.

“If coming here with Sam Winchester is your idea of remaining a neutral party, I ought to inform you that you aren’t doing a very good job.”

                Loki’s jaw tightened.

“Fine,” he finally relented, nearly spitting the words out. “If I have to have one, then I’m on _his_ side. And if he can’t hack it, then I’m back to letting everyone play their roles.”

                Death’s face was passive as he mulled it over, taking a bite of Loki’s cake as he thought.

“What are you hoping to gain by helping him?”

                Loki’s face was blank, but his eyes still flicked to the side, seeking Sam out almost unconscientiously. Sam pretended not to notice, and he certainly didn’t interrupt because he was half-convinced he wanted to hear the answer more than Death.

“It’s the right thing to do,” was all Loki would give him, but his eyes were on the ground when he said it.

                Death raised a dubious brow.

“It seems a little late in the game for a change of heart,” he said, “Particularly since I’ve never known you to be all that thoughtful towards others.”

“Yeah, well, when’s a better time to turn over a new leaf than at the end of the world?” Loki shot back, acerbic. “Besides, I’ve got a stake in all this too. What do _I_ get out of Lucifer and Michael’s grudge match?”

                Sam was starting to get the impression that whatever they were talking about was going straight over his head. Or what they were _really_ talking about, at least. There was a conversation going on here that he couldn’t follow, written somewhere in the angry lines of Loki’s face and in the all-but-absentminded way Death was watching them both.

                Loki finally seemed not to be able to stand it a second longer, because he abruptly stood, nearly knocking over his chair. For a second, Sam was almost afraid—he looked _angry—_ but the second exhaustion joined it on his face, it was a losing battle. Any vestiges of anger left him as he finally just heaved out a sigh and turned on his heels to take a few steps away from them both.

“I don’t care how this ends, or if I’ve got to finish it myself. All I care about now is that it’s done.”

“And you’d be willing to throw Lucifer back into the Cage if that was it took?” Death queried, head tilting to the side. “I trust that Sam will be willing to do anything in his power to put Lucifer back in the Cage, but I’m less convinced of your loyalties.”

“What, you want me to sign on the dotted line?” Loki snarked, on the defensive.

                Death seemed unfazed, though. He just lifted another bite of cake to his mouth.

“If that’s what it takes,” he answered, impassive as ever.

                A dozen seconds passed before Loki finally turned back around, face set to stone.

“Like I told you, I’m ready for this to be over.”

“Then you’ll do everything in your power to see to it that Lucifer is trapped?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”  

                Death’s eyes settled on Loki for a long moment, but, finally, he stood.

“Lucifer may act like a child, but his intelligence is at least marginally higher than one. He’ll know what you’re planning once if I give you my ring.”

“And you’re smart enough to know how to buy us time—at least until we can make our next move.”

“I could keep him from noticing for two weeks. Possibly three, depending on how much carnage he’s planning on creating,” Death relented after a moment of thought, shaking his head. “So, I suggest you make your next move before then if you’d like to keep the element of surprise.”

                Loki smiled dryly.

“I’ll keep us moving.”

“Then for the time being, I believe this is yours,” Death replied, twisting the ring off his finger.

It came free with a gust of wind that had Sam shivering, but he hardly noticed. For the first time, Sam didn’t just have a lead, some ghost in the wind to chase after. He finally had tangible progress _,_ something that was _real_. It was the closest he’d ever been to putting Lucifer away.

If he wasn’t still in the presence of Death, his face probably would’ve split in a grin.

                Death dropped his ring into Loki’s outstretched hand.

“I’ll take good care of it,” Loki blithely promised, fingers curling shut around it.

“I’m sure you will.”

                Death looked between the two of them, gaze lingering on Loki just a moment longer.

                Then he was gone.

 

 

~~

 

                It was only after Loki had snapped them out of the church and into a pastry shop that he finally let Sam take a look at the ring—and even then, only after making him promise not to try putting it on or anything _equally stupid that your Winchester head can come up with,_ as Loki had put it.

                Sam had chosen not to dignify that with a response.

The ring itself was a strange thing. It almost felt like a beating heart in Sam’s hands, pulsing with power. It certainly didn’t seem like it wasn’t something _he_ was meant to understand, because the harder he tried to focus on it, the less sense it made.

“You’re older than I thought, aren’t you?” was all Sam could think to ask, finally giving up on studying the ring to look at Loki from across the table.

“Just because humanity only gave me a name a few centuries ago doesn’t mean I haven’t been around for a lot longer,” Loki told him, shrugging. “Or that they didn’t know by another name before then.”

“Then how old are you?”

“ _Very_ old.”

                Sam scowled in annoyance, which was a mistake, because Loki had always _delighted_ annoying him. This was no different, because the god’s lips just twisted up into a smirk—but this time, he did actually appease Sam, casually adding,

“Older than even whatever you’re thinking now. I was _old_ even when I watched that first fish crawling out of the ocean.” Something almost fond overtook Loki’s eyes for a moment, but it was gone as soon as it’d come. He pulled a face. “If I knew what I knew now, I’d probably have just stepped on it myself.”

“And then what would you do? Isn’t tormenting humans kind of your only hobby?” Sam dryly asked.

“What I do isn’t any different from hunting. I help people, just the same as you,” Loki replied, a little sharper than Sam had expected. “You can’t grow a garden without pulling out the weeds.”

“You kill _people.”_

“After all you’ve seen, _you’re_ really going to try to tell _me_ that people can’t be monsters too?” Loki raised an unimpressed brow, shaking his head. “Some people can’t be saved. Or they aren’t worth saving. But if they are, then I _help_ them.”

“What, by throwing them in time loops?” Sam shot back, surprising them both with the venom in his voice. Loki was quicker to recover though, wry amusement replacing widened eyes.

“Oh, so _that’s_ what this is really about. You’re still pissy about the Mystery Spot, huh?”

                Sam’s jaw worked silently. He wanted to object, if only to wipe that look off of Loki’s face, but he couldn’t. Because much as he didn’t want to admit it, that _was_ what this was about—and maybe it was best to just go ahead and bite the bullet now, because it sure as hell seemed like he wasn’t going to get over it on his own. If he had to spend the next months in close quarters with Loki, well…

“Yeah, I guess I am,” he stiffly agreed.

“Don’t we have more important things to be worrying about?” At Sam’s stoic look, he just shook his head with a roll of his eyes. “I don’t know what the hell you want to hear from me, kid.”

                Something about that struck Sam the wrong way--which was probably a good thing when he thought about it, because it gave him another reason to remember why any sort of affection towards him was a _terrible_ idea.

“You put me through _hell_ , and that’s all you’ve got to say?”

“What, you want _me_ to apologize?”

“I don’t know. Maybe! I don’t—I mean, what did any of it even matter in the end? I couldn’t save Dean, and when I realized I couldn’t bring him back, I tried to move on. And then the angels brought him back anyways, so what did any of it matter?”

                Loki just shook his head.

“No, you didn’t move on-. You went out looking for revenge. _That’s_ your family legacy—not hunting, not saving people, not the family business. It’s that none of you can ever let go. And it’s going to be what kills you in the end. It’s what killed Cain and Abel, it’s what killed your mom and dad, and someday, it’ll be what kills you.” His voice was austere, flat. “I tried, but I can’t break the cycle for you.”

                Sam was silent.

“I don’t care what kills me as long as I stop Lucifer first,” he finally said, voice subdued.

                He unfurled his fingers from around Death’s ring and set it on the table between them. Loki’s attention was on him, though, the ever-familiar sadness visible on his face for just a second—for the first time, fixed towards him.

“And that’s another one of your problems, isn’t it? It’s like you just _look_ for excuses to sacrifice yourself. I’m _trying_ to help you, kid, but it’s not for shit if you die before we even get to Lucifer.”

                Loki almost seemed like he expected Sam to put up a fight, but when Sam didn’t, he just sighed, reaching forwards and plucking the ring out of Sam’s grip.

“I’ll call you if I find anything.”

                And with a snap, he disappeared.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

**February 2015**

                Loki had more or less left Sam to his own devices the past week, only dropping in for a few minutes at a time to bring him the occasional box of takeout or cup of coffee, and Sam had used the downtime to take on a couple third-rate cases in the towns he passed through.

                It made him feel a little like he was trying to put out a fire with an eyedropper.

                The world was ending everywhere he looked—monsters rising up left and right, massacres playing out on the daily, the whole nine years. In the time it took for him to put one blaze out, four more had started. The depth of need was endless, and it never got any less depressing to realize his inability to do anything meaningful to meet it.

                Well, _almost_ anything.

                The idea of Lucifer back in the ground was all that could put him to sleep at night.

                So it was with no small amount of enthusiasm that he answered his phone the second he saw Jo’s name flashing across the screen, not even noticing that it was half past three in the morning.

“It’s Sam,” he said when he answered—you never really could be too careful, after all.

“Good, because I think I’ve got something for you,” Jo’s voice came across, wrinkled with static. She paused a moment, then, a little sheepishly, added, “You weren’t sleeping, were you?”

“No,” Sam easily lied, shifting to sit up against the headboard. “What’s the news?”

                In reply, a scream wrapped up in a burst of static nearly deafened him.

“Sorry about that,” Jo was quick to reassure him before he could get out a word, “Just had to wrap things up with one of our black-eyed friends over here.”

“Where’s over here?”

“Elsworth. It’s a little city out in western Maine. Was probably a cute little place before everyone came down with the plague. I had to sweettalk my way into getting one of those disease guy suits just to get within fifty miles of the place.” Her sigh rattled the line. “Anyways, the shit had already hit the fan, but since I was already in the area I figured I’d come to check it out, see if there was anything left behind.”

”And you found something?” Sam asked, already halfway out of bed.

“Something like that. Got the jump of one of the fuckers they left to clean up the carnage. Took a little while to get him talking, but I think I know where your man’s headed next. Where are you now?”

“Arkansas. Half an hour outside Little Rock,” Sam replied, “Why? How long’s it gonna take to get there?”

                He was already on his feet, throwing books and clothes into his bag as he threw around numbers in his head. In two minutes, he could be out the door. If he skipped breakfast and sped too fast for any cops to get his plates, then he could be just about anywhere before nightfall.

“Nine hours?” Jo spitballed.

“I’ll make it in six,” he replied, tossing his duffel over his shoulder and giving the room a once-over.

“And I’m sure you could, but that’s four hours faster than it’ll take me to get there.”

                Her voice was nothing short of conspiring. It stopped Sam in his tricks, to be sure. Lips twisting into a grimace, he looked down at the phone.

“What are you saying?”

“Well, you didn’t think I was just gonna let you take this one on your own after I did all the shitwork, did you?” Jo asked, and he could just _see_ her smirk. “I know how Winchester men work. I’m coming with you, like it or not.”

                There were a hundred reasons why that was a terrible reason and most of them began and ended with _Loki._ Of course, he couldn’t exactly explain any of that. Placing his chips with a Pagan was only one step up from a demon in the best of times, and certainly not with the _god of lies._

“I’m already hunting with someone,” was all he could say without giving himself up.

“What is this—sixth grade lunch?” Jo dismissed him, her eye roll almost audible. “We can all sit together, Sam.”

“He’s not the easiest to get along with,” Sam pressed on, not quite willing to give up yet.

“I spent twenty years growing up around hunters, and half of that time serving them beers,” she replied, unfazed as ever. “I think I can handle him— _if_ he really exists, that is.”

Sam bit back the urge to mention that he half-wished he didn’t.

But Jo had never seen Loki, and even if Dean had ever mentioned him in passing, it wouldn’t have been by his real name. ‘The Trickster’ _was_ pretty vague.

                As long as Loki played it cool, it’d be nearly impossible to put two and two together.

                Of course, the price for getting him to do just that was probably going to make Sam’s life hell, but he’d cross that bridge when he came to it.

“Oh, he does,” Sam halfheartedly reassured her, heaving out a glum sigh.

                He heard Jo huff out a laugh on the other end of the line, then the sound of a car door slamming shut. Vaguely, he tried to calculate the time it’d take to get a trace on the line, but it wasn’t like it’d do him much good if she wasn’t there yet anyways.

“I’ll text you in five hours,” Jo said before he could seriously entertain the thought, not leaving him any more room to argue. “Do all the other drivers on the road a favor and try to get a few more hours of sleep, will you?”

                She hung up before Sam could tell her there was no chance.

* * *

 

 

                Six hours later, Sam nearly swerved off the road when Loki magicked himself into the front seat and narrowly avoided getting rammed when he slammed on the brakes to stop from going into a tailspin. Loki didn’t even pretend to notice, just leaned forwards to fiddle with the ancient radio dials.

“Hell yeah,” he crooned once the first keys of _Here I Go Again_ starting blaring through the speakers. On catching sight of Sam’s murderous glare, he gave an innocuous shrug. “What? I love Whitesnake.”

“I told you to _text_ me back,” Sam sourly told him, still trying to get his heartbeat back under control.

                Christ, the last time someone had scared him like that was Castiel, and that would’ve been— _right_. Sam’s knuckles gripped the steering wheel a little tighter.

“Right, and since you hadn’t nearly gotten done anything stupid or gotten killed in, what? Six days?” Loki’s eyes rolled back. “Well, I figured it was about time you’d gotten kidnapped or something.”

“What, so you came yourself to check in?”

                It was meant to make Loki shut up for a second, but Sam really should have known better than to try to shame him into shutting up. Loki just shot him the smile that always kind of made Sam want to punch in the teeth and purred,

“Only the best for you.”

                Since Sam’s preferred method of retaliation seemed like a bit of a bad idea, he just flicked the radio off instead. Which was probably not all that great of an idea in hindsight, because if anything was more off-center than driving alone in a car with a Pagan god, it was driving alone with one in silence.

“How do you always find me, anyways?” Sam finally asked, if not out of curiosity than just not to have to sit in silence any longer. “I thought I had myself warded to hell and back.”

“You did,” Loki unhurriedly revealed, “Even better after I added a few touches of my own.”

“Then how do you do it?”

“I don’t know. What’s it worth to you?” Again, he was entirely unfazed by the look Sam sent him. In fact, he just took it as permission to lean forwards to pointedly turn the radio back on, practically preening when Sam didn’t stop him. “Well,” he begun, clearly enjoying taking his time, “All it took was toggling the location settings on your phone, then setting it to send me updates every half hour.”

                Sam made a note to get a new phone.

“So, mind telling me where exactly we’re headed?”

“We’re meeting up with Jo. She thinks she pinned down Pestilence’s next target.”

“Right, your hunting buddy.” Loki paused, then turned to cast him a dubious look. “Sorry, backtrack a second. Was that _we’re_ _,_ as in we’re _plural_? As in, you and me?”

                Sam’s silence spoke for him because Loki just heaved out a dramatic sigh, shaking his head. He sunk back into his seat, gesturing dramatically between the two of them.

“You of all people should know that hunters and my kind don’t exactly play nice with each other.”

                Sam’s mind jumped back in time to watching Dean bleed out in front of him _again_ and again, _day_ after day, and that same flame of anger he hadn’t ever quite managed to smother out roared back up with all the intensity of an inferno in the span of a second.

“Yeah. I do.” He half-surprised himself with how cold he sounded, but Loki didn’t even react, so maybe he was just overreacting. Still, he had to swallow down a tide of enduring dread at the memory. “So that’s why you’re not going to say a thing. Unless you want to sit this one out, anyways.”

                Loki’s fingers tapped against the dashboard, golden eyes flicking over to watch Sam. He met them only for a second before looking away, thrown off his game by the rare flash of sincerity in them.

“Is that what you want me to do?”

                Maybe that was his way of apologizing, Sam guessed. If it was, it was pretty shitty, but that was still _something._

                After all, it wasn’t like Sam had much room to criticize anyone else’s apologies.

“Because I will, if you want to handle this between the two of you,” Loki went on, backsliding into his usual blitheness. “But you’re gonna be walking straight into a petri dish of all of humanity’s worst plagues, and as someone who’s actually lived through most of them, let me tell you that coming down with a case of the Black Plague isn’t a walk through the park.”

“And you can do something about that?”

“Of course I can,” Loki scoffed, sounding half-offended. “I’m kind of a _god,_ in case you hadn’t noticed. If you stick close to me, I’ll—hold on, let me think of a good analogy.”

“Please don’t,” Sam groaned because, knowing Loki, there was no way it wouldn’t be at least vaguely sexual in nature. “And think of something for me to call you while she’s around, alright? Something generic. Loki isn’t exactly inconspicuous, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“Gabriel,” he suggested, hardly seeming to think about it.

                (Later, Sam would regret that didn’t think about it, either).

                Instead, he just answered with a _good enough,_ and turned his attention back to the road.

* * *

Jo was waiting for them outside the address she’d texted—a hospital, Sam realized as they approached. She was dressed in a suit but looked like she’d missed out on last night’s sleep. And maybe the night before that, too. As they got out of the car, Sam’s eye drifted to the half-smoked cigarette she was rolling between her fingers. Loki did too, because the first thing out of mouth was a light,

“You know, smoking’s bad for you.”

“So’s chasing primeval entities, but here we are,” Jo dryly replied without missing a beat.

                Still, she let it fall and stamped it out against the ground.

“Jo Harvelle,” she said by way of an introduction, offering her hand. “Don’t think we’ve met.”

“Gabriel,” he replied, returning her handshake. His eyes flicked down to the glint of a ring as she drew back her hand. His brows raised in surprise, and he actually sounded almost impressed when he asked, “That silver?”

                Jo just smirked.

“So, why’re we here?” Sam asked her before either of them could get another word in.

He still wasn’t completely convinced Loki wouldn’t start a fight if they talked for long enough, regardless of whether it was unintentional or not. It was probably best not to push his luck, at any rate.

“I already did some canvassing while you were on the way over here, found something that sounded like our thing—two waitresses from the same place came down with high fevers and vomiting after their shift yesterday. Both called into work to say they’d checked into the ER overnight.”

“Food prep would be a good place to start if you wanted to spread something,” Sam mused, looking over to consult with Jo. “So, interview the vics?”

“That’s what I was thinking.” She cast a look over her shoulder. “I’ve got a CDC fake and they won’t be in quarantine yet, so I think I can get in. I was thinking you could take a crack at the database, see if anyone else’s checked in lately? Our vics names are Emma Goldstein and Kiera Johnson, if it’s any help.”

                Loki caught the fleeting look Sam sent his way, because he turned to Jo and replied,

“I’ll go with you. Computers aren’t my thing.”

“How are you gonna get in?”

                Loki reached into his back pocket and pulled out stack of IDs that Sam was sure hadn’t been there a few seconds ago, shooting Jo a grin. She just arched her brows, trying not look impressed.

“That good with you?” she asked, turning to Sam.

“Works for me.”

“Good. Keep your phone on, and rendezvous back here at… four?”

                He nodded his agreement, then they split off, Jo and Loki striding into the hospital and Sam doubling back to the car to dig out his suit and an appropriate fake. The closest he could get was a State Health Inspector card from New York, but it was good enough.

Not like some of the ridiculous ones Dean had given him over the years, anyways.

                Fuck.

Sometimes really Sam kind of missed flashing an ID that declared him a _Bikini Inspector_ or something just as stupid. He swallowed down his pining and put on his FBI face, then walked back inside.

                It was crazy the things you could get away with if you just pretended like you belonged—even better if you had a card pinned on your lapel to back it up.

                It wasn’t long before Sam tracked down an unmanned console in a quieter wing of the hospital, and no sooner than he had was he already running searches, notepad in hand.

                It took a bit of trial-and-error given that most people usually didn’t check into hospitals for mild coughs, but after a few tries, he found something like what he was looking for.

                _Max Hammonds. Lizabeth Saxon. Daniel Olmstead._

                He set his search back another day, kept the same parameters, and copied down another five names. All healthy, relatively young people with no histories of medical trouble, all checked in with severe symptoms ranging from high fever and coughs to chills and sore throats shortly after feeling ill.

                Sam flipped back to an earlier page in his journal, cross-referencing their symptoms with diseases that Pestilence seemed to favor, and… _there._

“Swine flu?” Sam muttered to himself, tapping the end of his pencil against the paper.

                He looked back over the list of names he’d written down, mouth curling into a frown. Neither of the names Jo had given him earlier were on his list. His eyes dropped back down to the keys as he typed in the first for a search.

                Her diagnosis popped up as salmonella, and the second girl’s did too.

Sam checked back with his journal, but salmonella was nowhere to be found.

Chewing on the tip of his pencil, Sam pulled out his phone. He’d link back up with Loki and Jo. If they hadn’t found anything, then they could go check out his list of names. If nothing came out of that, then it was back to the drawing board.

                Sam moved to click on the first of the names he’d written down, hoping to find a room number. There was none, though. Idly, he watched at a fly as he read.

_Status: Patient discharged by Dr. Green._

                The same thing popped up with the second name, then the third. By the time the fifth had come up with the same result, Sam was fishing his phone out of his pocket.

                It’d started to ring in his hands before he could even unlock it, Loki’s name flashing across the screen in insistent letters.

“Hey,” Sam answered, swallowing hard. His throat felt bone dry all of the sudden. “I think I found—”

                A cough rose up in his chest, cutting him off before he could finish. It turned into a second, then a third, quickly turning into a full-on fit before Sam could stop it. He could hardly breathe around them, chest heaving as he started to half-choke.

“Sam?” Loki’s voice called out through his phone, but it clattered out of his hand to the ground.

                His lungs were underwater, no room for air— _come on, come on, focus._ He’d done this before. He _didn’t_ need to breathe every ten seconds. Even underwater, he could go a good two minutes. He had time. He just had to figure out what to do with it.

“Tsk, tsk,” a voice scolded him.

                Sam spun around to face the source and drew his gun. He knew whatever he was going to try wouldn’t work from the second he started moving. It was like he was wading through tar, every one of his muscles sluggish and resistant.

                He came nearly face-to-face with a man wearing a starched white lab coat and a dangerous leer.

“Dr. Green, ‘m gonna guess?” Sam rasped out, struggling to keep his arms steady as he looked down the barrel of his gun. They were burning already, like he’d just finished a thousand pushups.

“Clever,” he asserted, easily batting Sam’s gun out of his hands before he could react.

                _Fuck._ Sam tried to keep his eyes on it, track where it’d gone, but a new wave of wracking coughs sent him slumping against the nearest wall just to stay on his feet. 

 _“If we can get off their rings, they don’t have the power to hold a physical form—except Death, of course, but hopefully that’s not going to be a problem,”_ Loki had told him.

                The words echoed distantly in his mind, and his eyes fell to Pestilence’s hand— _there._ On his fourth finger, he could just make out the glint of a silver band.

“What a nice surprise,” he heard the doctor croon— _Pestilence_. “If I’d known I was going to get a visit from Sam Winchester, I would’ve cleaned up a little more.”

                Whatever Sam had been about to say in reply was cut off by a splitting pain in his side. It was like he’d been stabbed—and for a moment, he actually had to check to see if he had. A second wave of pain hit, this one sharper than the first, and Sam took a hard tumble to the ground.

“Appendicitis kicking in?” Pestilence mockingly asked, stooping over him. “It’s an interesting disease, that one. Did you know the appendix is one of only a few organs your body doesn’t actually need? For something so useless, it can pack _quite_ the kick under the right circumstances.”

_Get up. Come on, get up._

                Sam may as well have been trying to lift a car.

                Right. So fighting was more or less out of the picture, then.

                As fast as he could, Sam tried to reassess. He had—he had backup. He just needed to last long enough to get them here.

                Sam tried to wheeze in a breath, vision swimming. Pestilence was going on above him, something about disease, humans, but Sam’s mind was elsewhere as his eyes skidded around the hall.

                _Whereisitwhereisitwhereisit—there._

                His call with Loki was still connected, Loki’s voice still coming through the speakers. Sam grasped for it, only able to just barely brush his fingertips along the side before Pestilence’s foot came into view and mercilessly kicked it away.

                Fingers tucked under his chin and forced his head up until he met Pestilence’s eyes.

“You’re an interesting specimen, Sam Winchester. All that demon blood boiling inside of you, all that flawed and mutated anatomy…” Sam spat in his face. Whatever triumph he’d gotten from the moment was dulled almost right after, because Pestilence’s face split with malice worse than Sam had seen in any nightmare. “I think I’m going to have fun with you.”

                His hand curled around Sam’s throat, and then the world flickered black around them.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

                Sam didn’t know where they were, which was an obnoxiously common theme in his life, really.

                Still, he made himself shut up, instead turning to look around. It was lit, but only barely. Half the lights in the ceiling were burnt out or broken, a bit like everything else around him. Equipment missing wheels, monitors with shattered screens, the smell of formaldehyde so strung in the air it stung his nose… he was still in the hospital, wasn’t he?

                Sam tried to jerk away from Pestilence as hard as he could, a little surprised to find that he let go without a fight.

                He was equally surprised when the first thing he did was fall straight over, coughing vilely the whole way. His throat felt like he was trying to cough up sandpaper. It was hard to even _see_ straight when his whole body was heaving with the effort.

“You know, I was actually surprised that you made it this far all on your own. But now I see that you didn’t. That friend of yours, the one who came in with the hunter—who is he?”

                Sam gritted his teeth, straining to try to get back on his feet. It felt like his insides were tearing in half, knotting around themselves and puling tight. Sam ignored it. He had to get up.

 “Come on, Sam. I’m not feeling patient,” Pestilence crooned, knocking him back to the floor with a snap of his hand. Blinding pain like nothing he’d ever felt split Sam’s skull, cutting off any plan he’d been forming, _what—_ “Meningitis,” Pestilence informed him, “Nasty strain, too.”

“He’s a hunter,” Sam lied, groaning when a fresh stab of pain cut through him.

“If he was, he and your friend would be curled up on the floor in a puddle of vomit by now.” Pestilence rounded him. “How do you feel about tuberculosis, Sam?”

Sam shut his eyes, teeth gritted. He’d done this with Castiel a long time ago, but angel, god—the principle was the same, right? Fuck. He hoped it was.

 _“Loki,”_ Sam prayed, trying to focus himself as best he could with what felt like his brain leaking out of his head. _“Come on, Loki,”_ he chanted, _“Where are you?”_

                No one answered.

“Not feeling very talkative?” Pestilence sighed, snapped his fingers, and Sam’s lungs burst into flames. Coughing didn’t even seem like the right word for what he was doing, no, this was worse. Much worse. His lungs were trying to crawl up his throat, dragging blood and bile with them.

                Still, Sam bit his tongue, forcing down an answer. He wasn’t going to sell Loki out, not now, not then. He wouldn’t give up Loki’s edge. Wouldn’t put Loki’s neck on the line by letting Lucifer know who was helping him. What’d happened to Crowley was still fresh in his mind.

Sam reached out, trying to find him. Find the thread of gold that led back to him.

_He tried to see Loki, picture the thin-lipped smirk he was so fond of, the curl of hair at the nape of his neck, the way his eyes got a little brighter every time he was angry or upset or thrilled._

Sam. _Sam._

_“Sam!” he heard Loki’s voice call, but he couldn’t tell from where._

_He reached out—_ and fingers curled hard around his neck, yanking him back to reality.

“What is this?” Pestilence snarled, and for a moment, Sam had no idea what he was talking about.

                His arm felt hot—well, actually _all_ of him felt hot, but this was different. This felt synthetic hot, like he’d injected bleach into his veins. It was foreign, alien, and it burned from inside like nothing he’d ever felt before. He gasped through gritted teeth, lurching to wrap his fingers around the pain.

                His eyes flicked down, then widened.

                His whole arm—no, his whole left half was _glowing._ Up his arms, his blood was going gold, spiderwebs of light travelling up at lightning speed. It burned up his shoulder, curled around his neck, and then he was blind— _no, not blind._

                The room changed in the blink of an eye, and Sam was seeing it all through someone else’s lenses. And he could see it _all_ now, see colors bursting into his vision that were beyond any human’s reach, feel the galaxies of energy housed in every living thing in the room down to mice chewing away in the rafters, hear the vines creeping up the walls as they dreamt of the sunlight outside—and Pestilence saw it too, because he grabbed hold of Sam’s arm, bruising tight.

                Sam’s head snapped up all on its own, lips peeling back to show his teeth.

“Don’t mark up the goods,” Sam said—no, _snarled._

                And it was his voice, but it wasn’t him _._

                All that he was seeing wasn’t _him._

                It was Loki.

“Who _are_ you?” Pestilence asked, but with a rush of satisfaction that wasn’t his.

                Sam’s manic grin just stretched wider.

                But the intrusion pulled away, taking whatever second wind it’d given Sam with it. It was all he could do not to just slump forwards.

                All of the sudden, it was harder to remember a time when he’d ever felt colder.

“What have you gotten yourself into, boy?” Pestilence snarled.

                Sam still wasn’t really sure himself, and it probably wasn’t a good sign that Pestilence was starting to look almost manic, checking over his shoulder like he was paranoid someone would be there one of the times he looked.

                But right then, all that was boding pretty damn well for him.

“If I had to guess, I’d say you’re about to find out,” Sam thickly answered, his laughter trailing off into a series of racking coughs.

                Pestilence stepped back, tension pulling his shoulders up tight. He muttered something to the thin air, and then the next time Sam blinked, a crew of demons had manifested from thin air.

                Sam could count at least eight.

                The number made his heart tighten up a little. He knew Loki was old, knew he packed a punch, but eight demons plus a Horseman? Even if he had Jo with him, it’d have to be a strain.

With Sam already more or less out of commission, the most he’d be able to do was distract a demon or two. At worst, he’d be a liability, something to leverage against Loki.

He needed to get to his feet, now more than ever. Pestilence already his back to him. If Sam got up now, he might have a chance to make a move, take out a demon while he still could.

                Ten seconds passed, then twenty. Sam was as good as he was ever going to get.

                Muscles fighting him every step of the way, Sam pulled himself onto his feet, but whatever chance he’d had at pulling something off dissipated as Pestilence turned back around just in time to see him stand. He cast one last look over his shoulder, but it was relaxed this time—Sam had lost his chance.

 “Now,” he began, stalking back towards Sam, “where were we?”

                In the distance, a door slammed open.

                Pestilence froze.

                And Sam snapped his head forwards, connecting square against the bridge of Pestilence’s nose. Rewarded by the _crack-snap_ of breaking bone, he managed to shove Pestilence a few steps away, buying himself just enough time to dive out of the way of the hand that made a grab his throat.

“Loki?” Sam shouted, trying to push his rising panic out of his voice. What if he wasn’t him? What would he do then? He’d just done something to sincerely piss off someone who was _already_ happy to torture him. If he’d jumped the gun, this was bad. Really bad. “A hand would be great!”

                His call was answered two seconds later as Loki stalked into sight, Jo on his tail. His eyes searched the room wildly, only stopping when they finally landed on Sam.

“I leave you alone for _ten minutes,”_ Loki was quick to scold him, but there was no hiding the relief plain on his face. Sam was distantly thankful he was too out-of-it to really think much about it, because now was _definitely_ not the time for that.

                Pestilence’s attention was long since gone from Sam, centered fully on Loki. There was something careful in how he moved, eyes never leaving the dagger that Loki had drawn.

“I know the Winchester sidepiece, but who are _you?”_

                Jo bristled, eyes flashing.

“You’re not very smart for a demon, are you?” she growled, lifting her gun a little higher.

“Sorry,” Pestilence apologized, no hint of regret in his voice. “The _ex_ -Winchester sidepiece. My mistake.”

“You want him?” Loki asked her, eyes flicking to the side. “I can take the demons if you keep him busy.”

                Jo’s eyes flicked around the room, and then she looked back at him.

“If you can hack it,” she answered, voice hard.

                Loki just laughed, low and dark, and then the room burst into movement.

                Before Sam could get a grip on what was going on with the other side of the room, he was already weighed down with concerns of his own. A demon was verging in on him, he was swaying on his feet like a drunk, and he still had no weapon. Sam hands frantically combed through his pockets, trying to come up with some hidden knife or hex bag or _something_ that they’d missed earlier.

                His hand nearly went right over his flask.

                In an instant, Sam had it out, swinging it wildly so the contents sloshed out at the nearest demon. Liquid splattered over its skin, coating its skin in the oily fluid.

“What, did you think I was gonna melt?” it sneered after the initial confusion had faded, moving to swipe the offending fluid off its face.

“Jo! Lighter!” Sam just shouted after his shoulder, and it really went to show just how much of a good hunter she was that she didn’t even question him, just yanked it from her pocket and sent it flying.

                He snatched it from the air, flicked it on, and hurled it, only waiting long enough to see that it hit its mark. The demon burst into flame with a scream, but he was already whirling around.

                Holy oil might not kill a Horseman, but there still had to be _something_ he could do. Knock off another demon or two. Distract Pestilence long enough for Loki or Jo to get in the hit they needed.

                Loki was tearing through demons with everything he had, a golden blur among throngs of oily black smoke, and Jo was swinging and dodging left and right as Pestilence tried to take her down, get to Loki. She feinted, bought enough time to fire twice as Pestilence jerked back to dodge.

                The bullets went clean through his chest, but they may as well have missed, because Pestilence kept fighting like nothing had happened. She tried to pull off another shot, but he was faster this time, knocking it from her hand.

                The gun went skidding across the floor and Sam lunged for it, just barely grabbing ahold of the barrel as it slid by. He moved to line up a shot, only to crumple to the floor in a fit of bloody coughs.

                The world spun around him, out-of-focus. His side was nothing but white-hot pain, and there was bile rising in his throat to prove it.

                Distantly, he thought he heard Loki’s voice call his name, but he couldn’t tell from where.

                His mind was spinning, out of his reach, fever burning straight through his skull.

_“I already checked for anything supernatural. It’s just the flu, Sam,” Dean had told him as he’d looked down at the thermometer. “I’ve had it before. Give it a few days of sleep, and you’ll be good as new.”_

_Sam knew the first part was true, at least. He’d been young, too young to do anything but bring Dean a new glass of water whenever he asked and hope that their dad came back soon._

_“I feel like I’m dying,” Sam wheezed,_

_“What, you want me to take you to the doctor? I think dad left enough cash for us to swing it.”_

                _Sam was half-ashamed to just consider it. At thirteen, Dean would’ve just swallowed a capful of Advil and called it a day. He was tougher than Sam was. Always had been._

_And besides, Sam knew there was never enough cash. Not when they never knew how long they’d have to make it last._

_“No,” he just said, even though that couldn’t have been farther from the truth._

_Dean grinned at him, giving him a friendly whack on the shoulder._

_“See? I knew you were tough. No big deal.”_

No big deal.

                Sam gritted his teeth and reached out, hand searching for where he’d dropped the gun.

                His fingers curled around steel and he lifted it a second time until Pestilence’s head was clear in the sights. And then he lowered it a little more, jerked to the left, trying to find a glint of steel.

                Jo met his eyes over Pestilence’s shoulder, face steeling, and then she made the wrong move—a weak, too slow punch meant for the side of the Horseman’s head.

                Pestilence caught her wrist, Jo jerked like she was trying to free herself, but, no, she was just giving him an angle. _She was angling him for a shot—_ she was trusting him, compromising her own ground to do it.

                Sam exhaled, forcing down the blood in the back of his throat.

                _No big deal, right, Sam?_

                The gun kicked back in Sam’s hands, and then fever took him away.

 

               


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

               His dreams were too bright, and the blood was even brighter. It was everyone’s, always everyone’s but his, always rising higher and higher, and he’d start choking down red until he was drowning in it and laugh in a voice that wasn’t his.

               Nothing was his in his dreams. Voice, hands, thoughts—nothing.

               He tried to drag in a breath and choked harder, thrashing wildly. Something grabbed at his arm, trying to hold him down under, and he twisted harder, clawing to get away. It didn’t budge, and it was getting harder and harder to breathe, sinking deeper into the dark, someone saying out his name at the edge of his consciousness. It grew loud, loud enough that Sam finally couldn’t ignore it. 

              He _knew_ that voice, knew it belonged to someone he trusted.

              A pulse of cold streaked through his vision, and suddenly Sam was shooting up in bed, gasping like he’d forgotten how to breath.

“Sam?” the voice repeated, but this time it was a question.

              He could hardly piece together a coherent though. His mind was drowning in fog, mind whittled down to what was directly in front of him. Gold eyes. Worried face. Hand on his jaw.

“Loki?” he croaked after a few moments of intense effort on his part.

“Who else?”

              He was—he was alright. Safe. It’d just been his mind fucking with him, that was all. Sam listed into Loki’s touch, eyes blinking shut. He was hot, almost unbearably, and Loki’s skin was like ice against his. He was hot, too hot to be shy about it.

“I don’t feel so hot,” Sam croaked out on his second try, his tongue thick and awkward in his mouth.

“Yeah, I got that from all the screaming,” Loki shot back, but it was void of his usual amusement.

              He tilted Sam’s face up, inspecting him carefully. “You’ve been out since yesterday afternoon.”

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he muttered, eyes fluttering shut to try to fight back against the nausea.

              Sam was dizzy, enough that it felt like Loki was the only thing keeping him upright. He must’ve looked pathetic, but the thought was too distant for him to think much about it.

“You’re a fucking furnace,” Loki muttered, shaking his head in frustration. “Christ, you can’t ever make anything easy on me, can you?”

                Sam tried to offer an apologetic smile, but he was pretty sure he never made it past the grimace stage. Loki’s glare softened a little more though, so the effort must’ve been worth something.

“Just hold still, alright?” he asked, easing Sam back down onto the bed until he was lying flat. “Let me give this another go.”

                Sam was about to ask what the first go had been, but Loki’s hand started to glow gold over hiss forehead before he could. It got bright, brighter, and then—then the light was _in_ him, a living, feeling entity. It pulsed through his veins like liquid caffeine, like touching an electrical socket. Like electricity, pure energy shot through him all at once the second he stopped resisting.

                But the burn of fever didn’t diminish, and the light reached deeper and deeper until something in Sam—or maybe Loki—buckled and snapped under the pressure.

                He was out of his body, rising up and up towards the ceiling until suddenly he was someone and somewhere else.

_It was all too bright, too complicated for Sam’s mind to understand, but he wasn’t in his mind anymore, and the scenery adjusted accordingly, dimming, simplifying until he could make sense of it. In the end, there was little left for him to see. He was left looking down at wide impressionable eyes on a young face, a swell of pride and protectiveness and guilt that wasn’t his own rising up in his chest._

_“Where are you going?” the child asked him, the innocence in his voice only undercut by the suspicion in his eyes. He spoke in a language Sam had never heard and in a voice that was everything but human, but every word fell clearly on Sam’s ears anyways._

_“Away,” a voice stiffly answered—_ his _voice, Sam realized. Or not expressly his, but the voice coming from whoever he was._

_The child scoffed, but he was shifting anxiously on his feet._

_“But when will you be back?”_

_Guilt wrapped around Sam’s tongue like a vice. His silence must’ve stretched on a beat too long, because the practiced suspicion in the child’s eyes finally took root and took over the rest of his face._

_“You won’t be,” the voice concluded, staring at the ground._

_The body Sam was seeing through reached out, wanting to touch a hand to his shoulder but the child flinched away, and when he looked up again, there was nothing in his face but anger._

_“Then I guess this is goodbye.”_

_It hurt more than he’d thought it would. More than anything he wanted to explain, but how could he? What could he tell someone who didn’t even know what’d been lost?_

_“I’m sorry,” was all Sam said._

_For a moment, it almost seemed like the boy might break down and cry. But he straightened his shoulders just as fast, pressing his lips into a thi-n line to keep them from trembling, and spat out,_

_“I hope you are.”_

And then Sam was crashing back down into his body, feeling twice as nauseous as he’d been before. It was nearly impossible to swallow the bile building in the back of his throat, but through some miracle Sam managed. Crisis averted, his gaze flickered over to Loki, who’d gone pale. He was leaning heavily against the nightstand and looked about half as sick as Sam felt.

“Forgot that kind of healing is a little above my paygrade,” Loki groaned, eyes shut tightly.

                Maybe fever had already burned up Sam’s brain because even though it was clearly something he’d hadn’t been meant to see, he still asked,

“What was that?”

                Loki’s eyes snapped open, locking on Sam.

“None of your business if you know what’s good for you.”

“I’m a _Winchester,”_ Sam laughed, and if saying something like that seemed like a perfectly good idea, then now he _definitely_ had to be delirious. “None-of-my-business is kind of my thing.”

                There was something deeply regretful under the anger that burned in Loki’s eyes, but it didn’t seem like it was meant for Sam.

“I did the right thing. I had no choice.” The words spoken with all the makings of anger, should’ve sounded angry, but they didn’t. So it was an old argument, then, all the points repeated one too many times for them to still have any real meaning.

“I did the right thing,” Loki  repeated, quieter, and this time it was clear he wasn’t talking to Sam.

                But Sam heard him anyways and thought of all the things he’d fucked up, of how many times he’d tried to convince himself of the very same thing even when he’d never really believed it and he smiled, strained and paper-thin.

“You were right,” Sam agreed, but it was to something entirely different, to something his mind circled back to more and more all the tie. “We _are_ alike.”

                Loki’s face twisted with regret, but this time, it didn’t disappear. He just swept the hair from Sam’s face, smiling mournfully.

“But you’ll be better. You already are.” Sam wanted to say otherwise, but his eyes were already falling shut, taking him away. Distantly, he heard Loki murmur, “I’m not going anywhere.”

                Sam drifted back away.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Late February**

 

                Six days later, Sam lurched awake as his fever finally broke.

                He was—where was—what? Christ, something was _moving_ by his feet—something _alive._ Sam’s hand scrabbled for a gun that wasn’t there, eyes snapping wildly to the source, and then narrowing in confusion.

                Sitting on the foot of a bed was a pint-sized _dog_ , blinking tiredly up at him. Sam swore it actually looked irritated, too.

“Hey, buddy,” Sam murmured, more confused than ever. The dog seemed to glare at him a moment longer, then lied back down with a huff. Sam’s immediate alarm taken care of, he untangled himself from the sheets—careful not to disturb the dog this time—and stood to try to get his bearings.

                Sam wasn’t in a hospital. That much was clear.

                He was in a bedroom, as far as he could tell. It was swanky, ritzy, designed gaudily enough that Sam got a good sense of just whose it was even before he staggered outside.

                _Loki._

                He could hear Loki from elsewhere in the apartment, voice filtering down the hall.

                Sam followed it almost mindlessly, leaning against the wall when his legs got a little too weak to support him. Loki’s back was to him when Sam finally found him, a phone in his hand.

“—because he’s still knocked out,” Loki told whoever was on the other end of the line, irritation bleeding into his voice. Loki paused. “Yeah, of course I’ve already got him pumped full of meds. He’s his own fucking pharmacy at this point.”

                He paused again.

“Yeah.” Again. “Well, he’s not hallucinating anymore, so I’m counting that as progress.”

                Sam took a step further into the room, clearing his throat.

                Loki spun around with golden flames licking up his arm, eyes alight until he realized it was only Sam. Then his eyes widened all over again, and the phone dropped to the couch, forgotten.

                Loki crossed the room in half a second, instantly taking Sam’s jaw into his head, turning his head from left to right and inspecting each of his eyes.

“You fucking idiot,” he swore. He let Sam’s face go, taking a step back before he said it again—this time softer. “Do you know how long you’ve had me playing nurse?”

                Beneath relief, beneath irritation, there was something in Loki’s eyes that Sam didn’t quite know what to do with, something he hadn’t seen directed at him in a long time. Sam looked away before he could remember just what it was, swallowing hard.

“You didn’t tell me you had a dog,” Sam said, silencing whatever question had been trying to claw its way up his throat.

                Loki seemed to catch himself, because he took another step back, whatever vulnerability he’d been wearing replaced by his usual laissez-faire.

“Yeah, and he’s a poorly trained little shit too,” Loki groused. As if on cue, his dog trotted into the room, tail wagging idly. Loki leaned down, scooping him up into his arms to give him a halfhearted glare. “He was supposed to tell me when you got up.”

“Well, aren’t dogs supposed to take on the traits of their owners?” Sam asked, lips curling into a thin smile.

Loki gave him a _look,_ but Sam reached out to pet his dog anyways.

                There was something nagging at his mind—had been every since he’d first gotten up—but it was growing louder now, a tangible presence. Sam’s face screwed in concentration as he tried to remember just what it was, just how he’d gotten here—wait. How _had_ he gotten here?

                The last thing he could remember, he’d been in the hospital, and… Sam’s eyes widened.

“What happened?” he asked, panic grabbing onto his voice.

                What’d happened to the ring? Did they have it? Was Pestilence gone? Where was Jo?

“Slow down, kid. I can _see_ you overthinking,” Loki dryly told him, pulling something from his pocket.

Sam moved in a little too fast to take a look, but Loki was there to catch him when he stumbled off-balance. Sam hardly noticed, though, eyes on what he was holding.

It was a silver band with a flat green stone in the middle, colors swirling around in idle eddies.

“That’s his ring?” Sam confirmed, relief filling him.

“Well, I had to pry it off his severed finger, so I’m gonna go with yes,” Loki answered, bitterness leaking into his voice. “I suppose I should thank you for that, by the way.”

“Just a lucky shot.”

“ _More_ than a lucky shot. I could’ve started a new branch of the CDC with all the shit you had pumped into you,” Loki snapped, anger filling his features. “ _I_ should’ve ripped his throat out myself. That fucker had the _balls…_ ”

                Loki trailed off with a snarl. He certainly _looked_ like he was ready to rip someone’s throat out. It kind of confused Sam, really, like he’d gotten left behind at some point in the conversation. He didn’t even know _what_ Loki was angry over.

“How long have I been out?” Sam asked, shifting unsteadily on his feet. Already, he was getting tired just from standing. He still felt residually weak, like he was one gust of wind from falling over.

“Six days,” Loki answered, turning away. “I’ve been keeping an eye on you. Making sure you didn’t choke on your puke in your sleep or something equally stupid.”

                _Six days?_

“Why didn’t you just pawn me off on a hospital? We were _in_ one,” Sam asked, the number catching him off-guard.

                When was the last time anyone had looked after him that long? Or, hell, when was the last time anyone had taken care of him at _all_?

“Look, I know you didn’t have many brain cells to spare before you caught a fever, but that was a hospital with a Horseman _massacring_ its patients. So you’ll have to excuse me for not trusting the system. Besides, all the shit _you_ had in you wasn’t coming out without my help.”

                _He took care of you._

Sam didn’t know how the hell he was supposed to feel about that, but he was pretty sure the wise option didn’t involve whatever the hell it was _he_ was feeling. Something raw, yearning.

                For a moment, Sam almost thought he was stupid enough to lean forwards and kiss him.

                But he caught himself, because that was an _idiotic_ idea. He was a fuckup, a failure, and that was exactly how Loki saw him. That was how everyone should see him. Sam could _try_ to be better but doing anything that a better person would deserve was out of the cards. He didn’t deserve that.

                Loki was looking at him a little strangely, almost like he could tell _._

                And maybe he could, because he turned away just as fast, moving towards the kitchen.

“You hungry?” he asked, “I’ve got soup in the fridge.”

Sam swallowed down the knot in his throat and just followed.

* * *

**Early March, 2015**

                The bar was near empty as Sam walked in—probably a symptom of the fact it was only a quarter past one in the afternoon—but all things considered, that was probably good. Talking about monsters and demons in crowded places had a nasty way of not going all that well when someone else overheard. 

                Jo waved at him from a booth nestled in the back.

“So you _are_ alive,” she surmised as he approached, pointing at him with the neck of her bottle. “I was starting to think Gabriel was just blowing smoke at me so I’d stop calling.”

                _Gabriel. Right._

“I’ve been busy,” he said, managing a semi-apologetic grimace.

                It was only a half-truth. For the most part, he’d been avoiding Loki as much as he could, trying to get over the skipped beat his heart made every time Loki smirked at him from behind golden eyes. And since he’d more or less been benched while he finished recovering from his stint as a petri dish, busy had roughly translated to _buried in books._

                Sam sunk down into the seat across from Jo, muttering his thanks when she slid him a waiting beer. Her wrist glinted in the light as she did, and Sam’s eyes flicked down, latching onto the sight of a neat row of stitches along the underside of her wrist.

“Those new?” he asked, motioning at the line of stitches across her wrist.

                She looked down, turning her arm over to get a better look. It must’ve been a nasty gash a few days ago—even now, the skin was bright red with inflammation.

“Oh, yeah.” she answered, indifferent. “Had a little run-in with an enclave of—get this— _Satanists._ Think they were planning on sacrificing me. Didn’t really stick around long enough to find out.” She shook her head, heaving out an angry sigh. “How fucking crazy can people get? I mean, you’d think common sense would kick in at _some_ point, right?”

“You haven’t been at it long enough, then,” Sam dryly answered. There wasn’t much that surprised him any longer, but he _had_ been hunting at least a decade longer. His eyes lingered on her arm a moment longer before he commented, “Well, if it’s any consolation, your suturing skills are better than mine.”

“Doubtful,” she snorted, taking a sip of beer. “I can’t force a needle under my skin unless I’m halfway to alcohol poisoning. I was with another hunter—Charlie? Doubt you ever met her. She only got in the game a couple years ago. She’s, uh…” Jo’s lips twitched into a smile. “Well, you know.”

                Sam did not know, but for the sake of conversation he gave a sage nod.

“Enough about that, though,” Jo said after a few seconds, eyes focusing back on Sam.

She waited just long enough to give Sam a chance to take a sip of beer before her lips pursed in a half-smile that sent off Sam’s warning bells.

“So,” she drawled, “Gabriel.”

                She took a sip of beer, and it took Sam a moment to realize she was waiting.

“What about him?” Sam asked, cautious. He was instantly starting to suspect that there was a trap lying in wait for him somewhere, but he was still blind to where.

“He a friend?”

                Ah. There it was.

“Yeah,” Sam noncommittally answered, careful not to meet her eyes in case she’d see right through him. She’d always been good at calling people out on their bullshit. _Kind of like her mother,_ his mind supplied, and Christ. That was just another person that he’d never get to say goodbye to, gone because of the apocalypse—because of _him._ He didn’t look up. “Something like that.”

“Bullshit,” Jo called him out, rolling her eyes. “The way _you_ were looking at him, you can either want to kill him or fuck him. Pick one, because I sure as shit _hope_ that’s not how you look at your friends.”

                Sam avoided choking on his beer, but only barely.

“You still don’t pull your punches, huh?” he finally asked, lips twisting into a dry grin.

                She gave him a _look._

“Don’t be just like your brother,” she sighed, and that _definitely_ wasn’t fair, because there was no way Sam could ignore something like that and she had to know it, too.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked anyways, jaw tightening.

“He didn’t break up with _me,”_ Jo explained, something sharp finding its way into her voice. Sam’s surprise must’ve been clear on his face, because Jo’s eyes met his head on. “As much as everyone always seems to assume otherwise.”

Sam felt a rush of guilt, but he didn’t try to explain himself. It wasn’t like anything he’d say would be any less offensive, after all. Jo seemed to appreciate that, at least.

“We started seeing each other after… what happened with my mom. I guess it would’ve been a year after you stopped talking? I don’t know if it was an accident or what, but we crossed paths. And I guess both of us were used to having someone at our side, because it just made sense to stay together. But he was already in love with someone else. I was just there to replace his brother.”

Jo’s face screwed up, and she shook her head.

“Point being that I broke up with him and gave him a push in the right direction, and he’s _still_ staring at the same damn person the same damn way. He still hasn’t made a move, and I have hard time believing he’s anything but miserable because of it,” she finished, sighing. “There’s no time for that shit anymore, Sam. And not for people like us. Not when life’s too short as it is, and ours are always a little shorter.”

                The table was silent for a few seconds before Jo added,

“And you know, _I_ think he likes you.” Her lips twisted into a conspiring smirk. “After you passed out, well, it wasn’t a pretty scene for everyone nonhuman in the room.”

                Sam considered that for a long moment.

                Jo was right. He liked Loki. _Liked_ him, even though thinking it made him feel a little like he was still in middle school. But it wasn’t _just_ about that or if Sam had forgiven him for the Mystery Spot or whether Loki felt the same. This was deeper than that—it always had been, ever since Sam had singlehandedly fucked up the entire world.

                He couldn’t.

                Finally, he looked up, met Jo’s eyes.

“It’s Castiel who Dean’s head over heels for, isn’t it?” he lightly asked, “It _has_ to be.”

“If you’ve seen one of their staring matches, I don’t even know how you can ask,” Jo answered, rolling her eyes. “Christ. I felt like I should call Guinness so we could get a timer going.”

                Sam laughed, shaking his head.

                They finished their beers, ordered a second round, and only then did Jo finally make a move to pull out her journal, flipping to the back.

“Now, about War,” she begun, sliding it across the table. “Here’s what I’ve got…”

It was the longest Sam had gone without thinking about business in years.


	6. Chapter 6

After he’d talked with Jo, it was really only a matter of time, no matter what Sam told himself.

                It was the alcohol that did it, though.

It was one of the nights where Sam couldn’t sleep, one of the ones where instead of hitting the books, he hit the bottle until he felt everything a little less. Like his fingers for example, which had gone delightfully numb after his fourth glass of whiskey.

                Which was probably a good thing, because he’d punched through the wall. Not much of an accomplished with the paper-thin ones in a motel, but it’d made him feel a hell of a lot better.

                (His knuckles would definitely disagree the next morning, but hopefully his hangover would be too distracting to pay them much mind—and that was a problem for later, anyways).

                It was exactly the sort of stupid shit he would’ve clucked at Dean over five years ago, and that thought alone inspired him to finish a fifth glass.

Fucking Dean, that—that _motherfucker._ So much for being brothers, huh?

Sam wheeled back to aim a second, sloppier punch at the wall. But misjudged just where the wall ended and the door began because half his fist caught the wooden frame instead and, well, _that_ was a lot less forgiving than the wall.

“Fuck!” Sam snarled, recoiling backwards to clutch his fist against his chest.

                Even through the alcohol, the dull throbbing in his hand was morphing into the cloying warmth that meant he’d more than likely fractured a couple fingers.

                He pounded back a sixth glass and went to get started on a seventh, only to find that the bottle was empty—and, almost funnily, that made him a hell of a lot angrier than the thought of Dean had.

“You too, huh?” he bitterly slurred at the bottle.

                Unsurprisingly, it didn’t answer.

                Sam dropped it onto the table and stumbled back towards the door. He was pretty sure he had a six-pack stashed somewhere in the trunk. _Liquor before beer, Sammy,_ the memory of Dean’s voice recited in his head. A muttered _asshole_ was all Sam said back.

                He slipped outside, searched the trunk, and beer under his arm, stumbled back to his room.

                Except the motel door didn’t budge.

                And it was only after he’d searched through all his pockets that Sam remembered that the key was still sitting high and dry inside on the table, right where he’d left it.

                Fuck.

                Well, at least he’d gotten what he’d gone out to get. He’d just skip the lumpy mattress and pass out in the backseat of his car after he went through the better part of the beer. Wasn’t like he’d really been planning on getting much sleep anyways.

                Swaying, Sam ambled to the car, leaned back against the hood, and popped the cap of his beer.

                Cheap beer in his mouth (El Sol—Dean’s favorite brand), the cool metal of a car behind him—for a second, Sam could pretend like he was leaning against the Impala after a hunt, Dean at his side.

                But the illusion broke all on its own, just like it always did.

                Maybe he needed to stop getting so shitfaced. Seemed like he thought even more about Dean drunk than he did sober. Didn’t have the sense not to, he figured.

“What the hell are you doing?”

                For a moment, Sam thought he’d said it. But Loki was always a tangible presence, pure power packed into a too-small shell, dizzying energy radiating off him like an overfull storm cloud.

                _Sam could only imagine what he’d been able to do with just a taste. He knew, just_ knew _that even just a sliver of that power would make demon blood feel like street corner crack. No, what Loki had was the force of a black hole with a burning supernova in its center, nothing but distilled energy from a dying star, and Sam knew that if he could just have a taste—_ fingers pressed against his forehead, and Sam doubled over and vomited before could finish the thought.

                Hands that weren’t his swept his hair out of his face as he heaved and _fuck,_ everything burned so much worse coming back up. He’d never be able to go near Jack Daniels again without gagging.

                Sam coughed, sputtered, almost straightened back up only to drop back over, then retched more until there was nothing left to purge.

                Feeling slightly sobered up, Sam leaned against Loki until he could stand up straight on his own. Loki held onto his shoulder to keep him from swaying, looking deeply into his face, then apparently seemed to decide Sam was no longer in immediate danger of alcohol poisoning because he let go, stepped back, and left Sam to fend for himself.

“How you feeling, champ? Want me to grab you a ginger-ale from the Seven Eleven?”

                Sam groaned, head lolling forwards. Puking had ruined the hazy bliss of being absolutely shitfaced. His ribs felt like they’d ended up on the business end of a battering ram, and lingering nausea plus the beginnings of a nasty hangover were starting to claw at his skull.

                His mouth wasn’t working well enough to get out a good, venomous _fuck you,_ so he settled on trying to flip Loki off instead. Burning pain shot down through his wrist when he raised his hand, stopping him in his tracks.

“Jesus Christ, kid. What the hell happened to your hand?”

                Loki’s fingers were around his wrist in an instant, surprisingly gentle as they held his hand in place, inspecting it carefully. He cracked open an eye to see what all the fuss was about and instantly regretted it because, _yeah,_ people weren’t really supposed to be that shade of purple.

“Got mad.” Sam shrugged nonchalantly and listed involuntarily forwards. Maybe it was just out of pity, but Loki just let Sam lean into him this time—well, mostly. He was vaguely aware of the hand splayed across his chest, preserving a little space between them by keeping Sam from falling forwards entirely. “Hit the wall a couple times.”

                He didn’t need to open his eyes to feel the unimpressed look Loki was giving him. But to his surprise, the Pagan still hadn’t shoved him away. He was dead body stiff under Sam, and when Sam finally risked a long up at him, he found that Loki had been staring at him first, face twisted up in nasty anger.

“You’re an idiot,” Loki snarled, eyes cast up towards the sky as he angrily shook his head.

                Whatever respite drunkenness was bringing him was sucked away in a second. It was one thing to tell himself that but hearing from someone else was always worse. His own judgment clearly wasn’t as good as he thought it was, after all.

(It was almost too easy to hope that he was just being too hard on himself, that his mistakes were honest, not from his own blindness).

“I know,” he agreed, voice plain.

_That’s why he never called._

                Loki’s eyes snapped back to him, confusion flashing across his face then that same _there-not-there­ ­_ imperceptible flash of sadness, gone just as fast as it always was.

                Sam hated it.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Loki replied, and there was still a snappish edge in his voice, but none of the outright venom that’d cowed Sam back.

                If Sam were sober, that would’ve been where he’d shut up. But alcohol had eroded his common sense and boosted his courage, and that was already excessive in the best of times to begin with.

“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” Sam asked, surprised when he found anger of his own boiling over into his words.

“Like _what_?”

“Like you feel _sorry_ for me.” Loki’s expression stayed blank, and Sam only grew in volume when he kept talking, too stupid in his drunkenness to stop. “You’re not _supposed_ to feel sorry for me! I break everything I touch—I’m the world’s worst fuckup! I _deserve_ all of this.”

“Yeah, well, you’re in good company,” Loki brushed him off, barely even paying attention to him.

                Sam’s tongue caught between his teeth, whatever sobriety he had trying to stop him from pushing any further, but it wasn’t enough to keep him from shouting out,

“And that’s another thing! You keep saying how much we’re like each other, but we’re not! What could you have even done that’d even come _close_ to how badly I’ve fucked everything up?”

                And that certainly got his attention. Loki was half a step in front of him before Sam even knew he was moving, close enough that Sam could see the individual streaks of gold in his irises, smell his all-natural aftershave of cotton candy sweet ozone.

“What, you want a list?” he drawled, chin tilting up.

“You really think I’m gonna say no?” Sam replied, just as much challenge in his own.

                The long stare that followed almost subdued Sam into backing down, but he was nothing if not stubborn. Even Dean would back him on that, and the last time they’d seen each other, his brother had looked at him like he was a stranger.

“Fine. Let’s see if I really _can_ match up to the Winchester tragedy legacy,” Loki finally said, spinning around. He talked fast, words pouring from his mouth like soda from a shaken bottle. “Family’s an easy mark—except when I split on them, they didn’t bounce back _nearly_ as well. And unlike you, _I_ didn’t go back, and I never will because there’s nothing left to go home to. Oh, and if you think _your_ daddy issues are bad…” Loki’s sour laugh finished the sentence for him.

                Sam didn’t know what to say, but Loki solved that problem for him, barreling on before he could get a word in edgewise.

“And then there’s the whole matter of what I’ve spent the last couple millennia doing. Fucking around with humans is good fun and all, but if any my brothers who _have_ made it this long found me now, their idea of a good greeting would be a knife in the neck. Especially if they knew I was sneaking around with _you.”_ He turned around just long enough to spare Sam an acidic smile. “Kind of like yours, huh?”

                Sam must’ve taken a punch to the windpipe because no matter how hard he tried, it seemed like he couldn’t suck in a breath of air. Loki didn’t even pretend to notice, too caught up in his tirade to slow down now. Loki held his eyes though, and finally the ghost of sadness was there for Sam to see in its entirety, undisguised and in the open.

                It was sadness, sure, but it went miles deeper than that. It was all the wild hurt and confusion of a wounded animal backed into a corner, the time-dulled fangs of betrayal and old anger, and something that Sam couldn’t quite figure out yet, but that was only growing stronger the longer he looked. 

“And then there’s the apocalypse.”

                It was guilt, Sam abruptly realized.

“As much as you try to convince me otherwise sometimes, you’re not an idiot, Sam. I’d _like_ to believe that sometimes, but it’s not the truth. It never was.”

                Sam swallowed hard. The question on his face must’ve been clear, because it was the next thing Loki answered.

“I knew all I needed to, and I didn’t even do anything try to stop it.” Loki must’ve seen the twinge in Sam’s face because he corrected himself with a humorless grin. “Well, _almost.”_

                And then the night seemed suffocating in its silence, punctured only by the suddenly deafening sound of Sam’s breathing.

“Then why are you helping me now?” Sam finally asked, voice tight and face as straight as he could make it. “If you already knew so much about me, if _months_ of driving me to the edge didn’t do it, then what the hell is it about the end of the world that’s enough to make you suddenly grow a conscience?”

                Loki’s hand was wrapped around Sam’s wrist before the brunet even saw him move, and the energy of what felt like a dying star jolted up into his arm like electricity. Acutely, he could feel the cells in his fingers growing and splitting all in the space of a second, the spilled blood beneath his skin sinking back into his veins where it belonged. And then the feeling of starlight tapered off, taking the distant ache in his fingers with it, and any lingering feeling of drunkenness with it.

                Sam just barely managed not to startle at the sudden whiplash, the thoughts in his quickly taking a turn from _fuck you_ to _oh, fuck._

                And if that wasn’t the cherry on the cake, it was a lot easier to notice just how close to him Loki was when he was stone cold sober.

“You’re not an idiot, Sam, and you’re not a bad person either. If anyone’s the victim, it’s you.” _Wrong,_ Sam’s mind told him. If he’d been a better person, if he’d just made better choices— “Every time you’ve fucked up, it was because Hell, Heaven—fuck, because _everyone_ set you up to fall. And every time, you’ve still gotten up to try to make things right.”

                _Wrong. Wrong. Wrong._

Nothing would ever wash the blood off his hands and letting himself believe otherwise would just be one more betrayal to the people who were dead because of him.

                He didn’t deserve forgiveness.

“A lot of people are dead because of me,” was all Sam could put into words.

“But a lot of people aren’t,” Loki replied, intense in his pitch.

                Sam held his gaze until he couldn’t, turning away with a subdued shake of his head.

“It’s not enough.”

                Loki was back in his field of vision before he could even blink, not letting Sam look away. The smell of sugar-burnt ozone swelled up around him stronger than ever, and glowing gold smoldered in his vision, too blinding to tear his eyes away.

“Sure it is.”

                And that was things went downhill.

                But if it was his eyes who dropped to Loki’s lips first, then, well, maybe this was one thing that wasn’t entirely his fault. Because Loki had said it like he really believed it. Looked like it, too. And, well, when was the last time someone had believed in him?

                 In the end though, Sam didn’t know who most of the blame fell on.

                Because faster than he could keep up with, Loki’s lips were on his and it suddenly things like who’d sealed the gap didn’t matter because _holy shit they were kissing_ —too much too fast, too hard, teeth clacking near-painfully against each other, and still neither of them could’ve cared less.

A hand came up to tangle in his hair, pulling Sam down further like there was still some way he could get closer and pushing him flush against the side of the car until the handle dug into his back all at once. Loki was all heat, too hot to be human, and Sam was too caught up in his intensity to even remember to breathe.

It was Loki who broke away to give him a chance, but all it took was one breath before Sam’s mind caught up with him, kickstarting whatever part of his brain hadn’t been fried by too many hits to the head.

                This was a _terrible_ idea, there was no way he could be anything but a disappointment, there was no way he was getting out of this alive to begin with—he shoved Loki away, eyes wide with panic.

                Somehow, Loki didn’t look surprised.

“Wrong move?” was all he asked.

                Loki was watching him, but the carefree half-smirk on his face not quite hiding the trace of sadness in his eyes. He already looked resigned, like he half-expected Sam was about to shout at him, storm off in a fit.

It was a little funny really because, despite everything, Sam was half-afraid that Loki would do the same to him. Even his freak out couldn’t quite stop that particular thought from intruding into his mind. Not that it helped put a lid on it, of course.

“I…” Sam swallowed and shook his head. The silence seemed to stretch on forever before he found his voice once more. “Don’t do this.”

                Loki raised his brows, silently urging him on.

“Don’t think that I’m not going to let you down,” Sam went on after a second, forcing himself to look up. He _had_ to make Loki understand, because there was no chance things would ever end any other way. He would always disappoint anyone who believed in him—that was just what he did. “Because I will. No matter what, I’m always going to let you down. It’s just what I do.”

                Loki laughed, and that was enough of a shock on its own to make Sam meet his eyes.

“I should probably tell you the same.” He stepped closer to Sam, lips curling into a wry smile as he spoke. “But it’s the end of the world, isn’t it? No reason to spend it alone, so why not enjoy the ride?”

                Loki was close again, close enough that Sam could feel the heat coming from his skin. Close enough that all Sam had to do was lean in half an inch to close the gap.

                He had a hundred reasons not to, each as good as the last, but he was damned if he hadn’t _tried._ Loki knew everything there was to know, knew that Sam was going to let him down in the end.

                And Sam was only one man. There was only so much he could take on his own. And maybe Loki was right—maybe there really wasn’t so much of a difference between them.

                _Two people alone at the end of the world._

Half an inch. All Sam had to do was lean forwards.

                So he did.

 

~~

 

 

                                                               

                Loki didn't stop kissing him, either, and before long, he snapped. Sam barely had time to realize they were back in his apartment before Loki was on him, yanking off his shirt, already working at the button on his pants.               

                Loki bit and sucked a bruising trail down Sam’s neck, teeth sinking and scraping sharp over every inch of skin he found. Fuck, he was going to be so marked up tomorrow. The thought went straight to his dick, and he groaned, tipping his head back further.

“You’re so predictable,” Loki crowed, punctuating his words with a bite to Sam’s collarbone, “Always knew you’d want everyone to know you’re mine.”

“I like you better when you shut the hell up,” Sam growled, dragging him back up for a kiss. 

                Loki, for once, didn't complain. He kissed back, all teeth and tongue as he licked into Sam's mouth, kissing him like he owned him. He curled a hand up into Sam's hair, tugging, yanking, pushing Sam back onto the bed like weighed nothing at all.

                Being manhandled— _that_ was new. Before it’d always been him doing all the heavy lifting, and there he was, getting thrown around by someone eight inches shorter and, fuck, he kind of liked it. And his dick _really_ seemed to like it.

                Sam reached down to palm himself through his briefs, Loki watching him with dark eyes.

“Fuck, you’re hot,” he growled, dropping a hand to palm himself through his jeans.

“You gonna do something about it?”

"If you ask nicely."

                Loki just yanked off his shirt in response, joining Sam on the bed and crawling down to where his cock was straining against his boxers. He was quick to yank them down Sam's hips, making full eye contact and smirking before flicking his tongue out against the head, swirling teasing until Sam was bucking up against the touch, trying for more. Loki was just as quick to pin him down, reprimanding him with a just-too-sharp graze of his teeth along the underside of Sam’s cock before he pulled off entirely.

"Don't be such a fucking tease," Sam complained.

                Loki seemed to take it to heart, because the next thing he did was swallow Sam down to the root, working fingers into him until he was lose and ready, Sam moan and writhe until he begged, and only then did he make good on his promise.

                He slid into Sam, hips snapping hard into him, and Sam came fast with Loki's name on his lips.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

                They don't talk about it, not really.

                There were times when they glanced at each other at the same time and their eyes met, moments when one or both of them might've lie and said that it didn't mean anything, but neither of them did.

                Sam was fine with that.

                Because to him, it did. And hearing otherwise might break something in him that he didn't think could be fixed again. 

                And when Sam's nightmares stopped, when Loki didn't say anything about it, Sam didn't either.

                There was an unspoken agreement between them not to ask.

                Like the time Loki told him,

"You can just call me Gabriel, if you'd like. Comes easier off the tongue."

                And Sam was sure it was something more than that, something else, but saw the look on Loki's face and he knew it was one of their things, so he didn't ask. He just nodded, and they moved on.

                It was good.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

**Late March**

 

                Sam’s hangover woke him up, demanding and unrelenting.

                Thirst was devouring him from the inside out, like he’d washed down his whiskey with a handful of sand. It made cracking his eyes all that much more of a challenge because the whole world seemed oversaturated with light, making his headache just that much worse.

                Too oversaturated, really. Sam blinked hard a few times, but the blinding brightness didn’t fade away. And only then did it really hit him, a ton of bricks dropping over his head all at once.

                Not a hangover.

                No, hangovers were a bitch, but slugging a couple bottles of Gatorade and popping a few Advil fixed them up just fine.

                Over-the-counter meds weren’t going to help him here.

                Everything just *felt that much worse now that he’d figured it out. His headache went from painful to blinding, the pain centers in his brain going haywire from withdrawal.

                Sam groaned, the taste of bile growing stronger in his throat with each passing second.

“Gabriel!” he called, and it probably said something that it was _his_ name Sam called first and not his brother’s like he had for years, but he was a little too bothered by the feeling of termites burrowing around under his skin to notice.

                He thrashed with an especially throb of his head, wrenching his wrists as he did. Only once he’d gained a little more soberness did he look up, see his hands firmly fixed to the metal bedposts with cuffs. Already, deep purple bruises had blossomed around his wrists—too intense to be new.

                Distantly, from behind the fog of withdrawal, Sam had to wonder how long he’d been at it. Bruises like that didn’t show up out of nowhere.

                So just how long had he been here? How many times had he already woken up?

                Trying to look past the bursts of light overtaking his vision, Sam blinked hard and tried to scoot as upright as the cuffs would allow him.

                It wasn’t much, but it gave him enough of a vantage to get a better look at the room around him. He was back in Gabriel’s apartment, in the same room he’d been in before after he’d been sick. The curtains were drawn, but the dim light streaming through made him guess it was sometime in the afternoon.

                Craning his neck to the side, he saw his phone on the nightstand. It was impossible to get to it with his hands tied up, but through a little thrashing he managed to wobble the nightstand enough to get the screen to turn on.

                It was three twenty-one, but that quickly became the least of his worries because right under that, it proclaimed the date as March 23rd. Which was only concerning after he remembered that the last time he’d checked, it’d been the 19th.

                But what agitated him the most was the still below that.

                _Gabriel. One unread text._ And then, beneath that— _Jo Harvelle, Thirteen Missed Calls._

                Sam cursed.

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Six Days Earlier**

  

 

“Are you sure you’re good to go on this one, kid?” Gabriel asked, eyeing him almost cautiously.

                It was Gabriel's lead this time, one he'd refused to give Sam the source of, but as far as Sam was concerned, any lead was a good lead. Even if they _had_ planned on taking on Famine last, it wasn't like they could just pass it up.

“Of course I am.” Sam glanced to the side, confusion written on his face. “Why?”

                Gabriel didn’t meet his eyes, just kept looking forwards through the window.

“Disease and desire are two separate ballparks. I can’t micromanage what goes on in your head, kid.”

                It didn’t sound like much of an answer, but when Sam went back to what he’d heard Gabriel say before, the pieces slotted together.

                _He makes you hungry for whatever it is your heart_ _desires—food, sex, you name it. Except it’s not exactly like he lets you enjoy it in moderation. No, you get it until you die, or you go batshit crazy trying to get it. I’m talking cannibalism, fuck-til-you-die, dingo ate my baby crazy._

                Sam looked away.

“Yeah, well, luckily for both of us, I can.”

                He was wrong.

 

~~

 

 

                Sam felt it the second they rolled into town—a little twist in his gut, gaining intensity every foot deeper into town they got. He had to resist cinching his eyes shut, traded off by biting his tongue until blood spilled into his mouth.

                _It wasn’t enough, he needed—_ no. He was _fine._

                So Sam clenched a fist instead, and when blood welled up from his palms, it was much easier to ignore.  

                Gabriel’s voice pierced through his reverie before he could force it away though, like he could read straight into Sam’s mind. He sounded annoyingly worried, enough that Sam had to resist snapping irritably back at him.

“You doing alright there, kiddo?”

“Yeah. Think I’m just getting a little carsick, ‘s all,” he lied instead, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

                He could feel Gabriel’s eyes on him, but his lie must’ve been convincing enough because he didn’t push the subject.

“You’re bleeding,” he commented instead, reaching over to peel Sam’s fingers back from his palms. He was surprisingly delicate as he grazed his fingertips over the wound, the cuts mending together in the wake of his touch. His eyes weren’t half as benevolent though, sparking with mischief instead. “There. You want an all-better kiss too?”

“Is that a threat or an invitation?” Sam dryly replied—and really, he should have not better than to not nip it in the bud, because Gabriel was always going to come out on top of these things.

                He didn’t even need words to win this one, just smirked at Sam with that punchable look. And suddenly quite aware that he still was in Gabriel’s hands, he pulled away, just to be contrary.

“So, you think our man’s here?” he asked, just to try to make it seem like he didn’t fully know the answer already.

                Gabriel’s eyes flicked upwards, a spiderweb of gold creeping up the lines of his throat as he… did whatever it was he did. After a moment, the glowing died down, and he turned back to Sam.

“Can’t tell anything for sure yet, but it all feels….” He reached up, tugging uncomfortably at the collar of his coat. “I’ll scout around, see if I can pick up any weird frequencies.  You head over to the inn off Pinegrove and settle in ‘til I come back.”

                Usually, Sam would’ve put up a fight about Gabriel going off to poke around on his own, even if it was only a token one. But right now he was about to bite a hole in his tongue, and getting as far away from Gabriel as possible sounded like a pretty damn good idea.

“How long are you gonna be?”

“Thirty minutes? Maybe an hour.” Gabriel tossed him a key and swiveled to the side. “Keep your phone on and try not to get killed while I’m gone, alright?”

                Sam wasn’t about to promise that, but Gabriel was gone before he could say as much.

               

 

 

* * *

 

 

               

                By the time he made it to the hotel, Sam’s hands were shaking so badly he could hardly fit the key in the lock. He felt like a junkie who’d gone too long without getting a fix.

                It probably said a lot that he was actually thankful not to be near Gabriel for a while.

                If nothing else, it meant that no one had to watch him shake like a wet dog, at least.

                It took thirty seconds to unpack, and then Sam was standing in the middle of the room, in the middle of a faux withdrawal he hadn’t done _anything_ to deserve (this time), with no distraction from it.

                Sam fished out his phone, looked between the two contacts he had loaded onto it, then clicked the second. It only had to ring once.

“Is it an emergency?” Jo rashly asked the second she picked up, voice ripe with stress.

“No, nothing like that,” Sam lied, because what was he _supposed_ to do—tell her he was two seconds away from losing his shit? “I’m just calling to check in.”

“Oh,” Jo breathed out, sounding mildly calmer. “Look, I can’t talk long. I’m working on something big right now, staking out this place. I’ll have to bolt the second my man walks out.”

“What are you working on?” Sam asked, desperate to keep her on the line long enough to get his mind off the termites crawling under his skin. “Case?”

“Yeah. Been tracking this banshee for…” She abruptly cut off, inhaling sharply over the line. For a moment, Sam thought she’d hung up, but then her voice came across the line. “Look, I shouldn’t be telling you this, but you’re not the only Winchester who’s come up with an apocalypse plan.”

                Sam wasn’t sure quite what to feel after hearing that. Thinking about Dean was always a mixed bag, now more than ever. In the end, he didn’t say anything, and Jo took that as a sign to keep talking.

“Dean called me up to check out a lead for him on some kind of gun. Says he heard about it from a demon who told it could kill anything—including Lucifer. That’s what I’m doing now.”

                _Crowley,_ Sam realized, _he said he told Dean about a gun the last time I saw him._

It had to be the same gun. There was no way it wasn’t.

“Well, anything that raises the odds, right?” he asked, trying to keep dread from overwhelming him. _How does he even think he’d find Lucifer?_ “Is there anything I can do to help? What’s his plan?

                If her silence hadn’t been enough of an answer, the deep sigh that finally followed certainly was.              

“His isn’t as optimistic, Sam,” Jo told him, like she was consoling him.

                There it was.

                Sam couldn’t act like he was surprised, not when the last thing he’d done to Dean was disappoint him, but even if time had dulled the blade, the wound still stung.

                He shoved the reaction away. Maybe if he had the time someday, he’d be able to pull it out with all the other letdowns, but for now, it was easier to let himself be numb.

“He thinks I’m not going to make it.”

“But you are,” Jo replied, the force behind her words nearly making him flinch in surprise. “You’re going to pull this off, and then we can spend the rest of our lives sipping daiquiris somewhere tropical. I wouldn’t be helping you if I thought otherwise. I’m only here as a favor to Dean, and that’s it.”

                Sam just looked down at his shaking hands and wished he could be half as sure of himself as she was.

                He couldn’t say as much, of course, because that would invite questioning, and that was the _last_ thing he needed, not when he was one thread away from unravelling.

                So he said the next best thing, something to steer the conversation somewhere lighter. Because that was what he’d called for, wasn’t it? Something to keep his mind off things?

“Really? _You’d_ retire?” he incredulously asked, forcing a laugh.

                Jo took the bait hook, line, and sinker.

“If I saved the world, hell _yeah_.” She snorted. “You know, even without fixed hours I still haven’t taken a vacation day in three years? Went down to Reno with... well, it was a good time. I made off with something like four grand when all was said and done.”

                He and Dean had done something like that once, back when they’d still been on speaking terms. Sam could still remember their yearly Vegas bonding trip, tearing up the tables in every casino they walked into. He muzzled the melancholy before it could fully sink his fangs into him, pushing the thoughts away.

“Maybe you and I can make a go at it when all this is said and done,” Jo suggested, seeming to perk up. “If it’s his scene, you could bring your _friend_ too _._ ”

“Maybe,” Sam agreed, more for Jo’s benefit than his own.

He was far less optimistic than any apocalypse-averted plan would involve him. But everyone needed something to look forwards to, and if Jo wanted to believe that all the threads would come neatly together in the end, then who was he to take that away?

                Even if he couldn’t see anything for himself after saving the world.

                Being the guy who’d saved the world would be enough, even if he didn’t live long enough to see it. And if he didn’t do either of those things, then just maybe he’d leave enough pieces for Dean to salvage something from what was left.

“Yeah, we could— _shit!_ I gotta go. Talk to you later!”

                His phone clicked dead.

 

 

* * *

 

 

                Ten minutes later saw Sam pacing madly around the room, trying to give himself _something_ else to focus on. He’d thrown down his book after failing to read the same page five times, nearly puked after trying to munch on a granola bar to settle his stomach, and now the _noise_ was killing him.

                It was everywhere, no matter how much he tried to drown it out—the honking cars blaring out on the street outside, the analogue clock ticking away on the wall, the _fucking voices in his head._

                Sam had been stronger than this once, but he was quickly losing faith that that was still the case.

                It’d been years, sure, but had it _really_ been this hard, even then?

                He tried to remember Ruby, what it’d been like that back then, but all he could think of was the blood. Hot and tangy down his throat, the sting of sulfur in his nose. Power, energy in his veins like he’d been a man who’d never slept trying caffeine for the first time.

                His nails were digging into his palms again by the time he pulled himself out of the fantasy. Sam had to force himself to relax, watching as little droplets of blood welled up in the half-crescent cuts in his hands.

                Before Sam could stop himself, he was bringing his hand to his mouth, sucking the blood off until not a drop of blood was left in the grooves and creases of his hands.

                Ironically, that just made it worse.

                He was like a cigarette smoker putting a pencil in their mouth just to try to make the cravings go away, like a placeholder would ever be half as good as the real thing.

                Christ, he was so fucked up.

“You gonna hop in the shower before we head out?” Gabriel said from behind him, startling him so badly he pulled his gun. Gabriel just looked at him and raised a brow, entirely unimpressed. “Someone’s jumpy.”

“Don’t do that,” Sam snapped, angrier than he’d meant to.

                It seemed to catch Gabriel a little off-guard, because his brows drew just a little closer together—almost subtle enough that Sam wouldn’t have noticed it if he hadn’t spent months learning how to read between all his lines. It wasn’t half as satisfying as surprising him usually was, though.

Mostly, Sam just felt like kind of an asshole. And like he _knew_ he was being one too, but that he was still in too much of a bad mood to stop himself, and that was just that much worse.

“Did you come up with anything while you were out?” Sam asked, guiltily trying to steer the atmosphere away from his outburst.

                Gabriel took the chance without pressing the subject, and Sam was unspeakably thankful for it.

“Nothing. Not even a grunt. Whole place’s squeaky clean as far as I can tell.”

“You think I came up with the wrong place, then?”

                And Sam really hoped he didn’t say yes, because it would be a hard hole to dig himself out of if Sam had to find a way to explain Gabriel was wrong.

“No,” he glibly answered, answering Sam’s prayers. “We’re in the middle of end times, and you’re telling me there’s not even a black-eyes around in a ten miles radius? If there’s ever been a town that’s _too_ clean, this place fits the bill.”

                Sam tried not to seem relieved.

“What about you?” Gabriel casually asked him. “Did _you_ find anything while you were…?”

“No. Just unpacked and called Jo while I waited.”

                Gabriel was looking at him the same way he always did when he wasn’t completely sure of something. Sam had memorized all his tells by now—the little arch of his brows, the half-tilt of his head, the way his lips pressed just barely together.

                Sam just hoped he didn’t look too hard, because he wasn’t totally sure his hands weren’t shaking. And it was one thing for _him_ to know he was a freak, but it was another for someone else to know. And, well, especially with someone like this. Someone he cared about.

                Gabriel’s eyes slid away, and Sam had to bite back a sigh of relief.

“So,” Sam said, “What’s our next move?”

“It’s kind of late, isn’t it?”

“So you think we should check out the bars?”

“We can if you’d like,” Gabriel innocently answered, looking demurely at Sam. “But if you’d like to check something else out, I _do_ happen to know that this room has an unusually roomy shower.”

                It took a moment for Sam to catch on, but once he did… well, if there was anything that could get his mind off things, then it was definitely _that._

“Oh? How roomy?”

                He raised a suggestive brow.

“Want to find out?”

                Definitely not roomy enough, but Gabriel had flexibility going for him, and the water-slick rut of skin on skin was more than enough to distract Sam--at least for a while.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

               Sam spent the night awake, soaked in sweat and shaking, and it showed the next day. They'd gotten an early start, much to Sam's exhausted chagrin, and Gabriel had talked the _whole_ walk to the diner, and Sam was going to  _lose his shit--_  

“Sam, are you even listening to me?” Gabriel irritably asked, waving a hand in front of Sam’s face.

                It was a stupid thing—Sam _knew_ that—but it pissed him off like nothing else had.

“I don’t know,” he snapped, “Are you saying anything worth paying attention to?”

                Gabriel’s brows dropped, eyes going analytical. Like if he stared hard enough, he could dissect Sam like he was some kind of specimen.

“Talk to me,” Gabriel said after a few seconds, voice calm and low like he was talking to some scared kid. “What’s going on?”

“Is it so hard to believe that I’m just tired of hearing you talk all the fucking time?”

                Gabriel didn’t even blink, and Sam was that much angrier for it. He could be so _fucking_ patient sometimes when Sam just wanted him to get _angry._ It was so much easier to shout at someone sometimes, have them shout back. _T_ _hat_ was what he wanted then. Someone to be just as angry back at him. There was no fight if it was only one person, and a fight was what he was looking for.

“Sure,” Gabriel lightly replied, “That’s why you keep me around.”

                _Don’t say it. Don’t._

“You really think I give a shit about you for anything other than putting Lucifer away?” He didn’t mean it, didn’t mean any of it, but when he opened his mouth to say it, but that wasn’t what came out. “Has anyone ever kept you around because they actually _liked_ you? Or do you just run away before they can kick you out themselves?”

                Gabriel would’ve looked less hurt if Sam had just stabbed him.   

                Sam had seen Gabriel hurt before, but _he’d_ never been at the cause of it. It was the worst he'd felt in ages, the worst he'd felt since he'd last _had_ someone to hurt.

                 He was tripping over himself with guilt, but his tongue was too heavy to put any of it into words. So he sat there with wide eyes a second, then launched up from the booth.

“I—I need…" He needed to get out of here _now,_ before he fucked things up worse. “I need some air.”

                He was out the door before he could hear if Gabriel had called after him, but it was probably for the best.

 

 

* * *

 

  

 

                Somehow, Sam ended up running.

                He didn’t know how. He’d started out at a jog, just to get _out_ of there, but then one thing had led to another, and, well, he hadn’t exactly wanted Gabriel to catch up.

                Sam just—he just needed a second by himself to think, get a handle on himself.

                _Fuck,_ _he_ _was_ _starving._

                Sam ducked into an alley when his legs refused to carry him another step. Chest heaving, he leaned up against a wall, letting his head fall back until it met brick.

                His mind wouldn’t stop replaying the look on Gabriel’s face. Christ, he’d really fucked up, hadn’t he? He hadn’t meant to say it, certainly hadn’t meant to keep going. Gabriel would understand that, right? He was always so damn patient when Sam needed him, always listened when Sam needed to get something off his chest. He’d know that Sam hadn’t meant it, wouldn’t he?

                He _had_ to.

                Sam didn’t know what he’d do if he didn’t.

                Gabriel was the first person that’d looked at him like he believed in him for a long time—or at least pretended to, anyways. Sam didn’t know if he could handle losing that. If he could go back to wandering around alone, like a dead man walking.

                His hands shook at his hands until he fisted them in his flannel, biting down hard on his tongue until the nausea in his stomach passed and squeezing his eyes closed.

                He wasn’t alone anymore by the time he opened them again.

                But it was too late to do anything about it, because he was slammed back up against the wall before he could do a thing about it, stars filling his vision.

“What’s a pretty boy like you doing out here?” a woman’s voice purred in his ear, the hand around his throat tightening to a dangerous pressure when Sam tried to jerk away. Pitch black eyes were watching him, blood red lips curled into a grin. “Now, now. None of that, or I’ll snap your neck.”

                Sam’s heart sped up.

                _If he could just get a taste of what was under her skin…_

                He clenched his teeth hard enough for his jaw to crack, only speaking once he was sure the first words out of his mouth wouldn’t be a plea.

“Lucifer wouldn’t like that,” Sam rasped. It was more of a bluff than anything else, but if he could just stall long enough for Gabriel to realize something was wrong—or not. Fuck, he didn’t have a rescue coming, did he? Not after what he’d said, how he’d run out. “Think he’s got a no-harm policy on the goods.”

                Fuck. He had to come up with a plan.

“A few years ago, maybe. But you haven’t exactly been cooperative enough to keep privileges like that, have you? He’ll be so happy to see you that he won’t mind a little wear-and-tear.”

                Sam swallowed hard around her hand, trying to shift to get a little more leverage. He just had to come up with enough force to get out of this chokehold. Or if he could just a hand free…

                Ruby’s knife weighed heavily against his ribcage. All he had to do was get a hand on it.

“Then I’ll make sure you’re the first fucker I kill,” Sam darkly promised, proud that he didn’t flinch when his airway was cut off completely.

In vain, he tried to heave in gasps of air, lungs growing tighter and tighter when there was none to be found. Slowly, the bright bursts of light in his vision started to give way to darkness, and only when he was sure he couldn’t last another second did the crushing pressure around his neck lighten up enough for him to suck in half a breath.

“Don’t you know it’s rude to ignore someone when they’re speaking to you?”

                Sam just wheezed, trying to get oxygen flowing back to his brain. He could still get out of this. If he could just keep on her eyes on his face long enough to fumble out his knife, he could get out of this.

                He just had to do it quick, get out fast before he could talk himself into… anything else.

“Only when they have something new to say,” he snarled between gasps, trying to get a handle on the situation. He just needed three seconds. He just had to keep talking that long. “I stopped pissing myself—”

                Sam’s head slammed back against the brick wall, stopping him in his tracks. The knife fell from his grip, clattering to the ground well below his reach. Somewhere under the fresh wave of pain strangling him, he could vaguely register the situation as having slipped down from _bad_ to _very bad._

“You really expected that to work?” a voice distantly laughed, but Sam was more concerned with whatever it was trickling down his neck—what was that? Water? Sweat?

                _Blood,_ Sam’s mind distantly chimed, and that was his undoing.

                _It’s desperate enough to warrant it,_ he tried to justify himself, even as he was clawing down to the parts of himself he’d tried to keep under lock. _I_ _have no choice._

                But that wasn’t the whole truth, not really, because the second he felt that addictive first rush of power flow through his veins, saw the horror on the demon’s face as it realized just how badly it’d fucked up… well, it _did_ things to Sam.

                When his lips peeled back, it was all over. He fell back into the role of a predator with all the ease of a conman sinking back into a second skin, and that was that.

                Sam pitched the demon off of him like a ragdoll and his grin nearly split his face in half when its body slammed against the adjacent wall with the _snap-crunch_ of breaking bone.

                Fuck. He’d missed this.

“It was only Plan A,” Sam answered.

                His head tipped back with a laugh because _Christ,_ the demon’s face was _priceless._             

                Hand held out to keep it frozen in place, Sam languidly leaned over to retrieve his knife. Disinterestedly, he dragged the tip across the length of his finger. A droplet of blood welled up in its wake and, making full eye contact, Sam swirled his tongue around the pad of his finger until it was gone.

                The demon struggled harder against him, but Sam just tightened his invisible hold.

                _Stopstopstop_ _—_ his body made the decision for him, and his legs were carrying him forwards before his mind could catch up. He was out of control, spiraling up out of his body, no hands on the wheel.

“What I was going to say,” he calmly continued, tracing the knife along the woman’s jawline, “before I was interrupted, was that I stopped pissing myself because I’ve ended up with the upper hand.”

                _Don’t do it._

“Let me go and I won’t say anything,” the demon tried to bargain, “You can just walk out of here, no harm done.”

                Sam paused, drawing away the tip of the knife. He tapped the flat edge against his palm, drawing his face up in mock thought.

                And right when the demon stopped squirming, he plunged it once, twice, artery-bright blood pouring from the punctures in her stomach onto his hands. Lightning strikes of yellow lit up beneath the demon’s skin, the stench of sulfur rising heavy and pungent in the air.

                _You’re not a junkie anymore._

                Sam couldn’t tear his eyes away.

                His mind was a one-way street, tripping, stumbling over itself trying to justify itself.

                He was running on empty, especially after this little stunt, what was the harm in refilling the tank a little, seemed only fair after he’d gone through all the trouble— _remember the way Dean looked at you,_ some part of Sam tried to shout, but it was much quieter than when it’d started now, faded out into hardly more than a whisper.

                Sam raised the knife again and stabbed straight through the demon’s throat with one pass of arm, delighting in the splash of warm blood on his face.

                His tongue flicked out to wet his bloodstained lips, and that was that.     

 

  

* * *

 

 

 

                Sam’s world was whittled down to the taste of copper in his mouth, the heady thrum of undiluted power that flooded his veins. He could do anything. Take down a swarm of demons with a flick of his wrist. Kill Famine. Go toe-to-toe with Lucifer himself.

 

                In the corner of his eye, Sam could see the slow creep of coal black veins up his arms, but he couldn’t stop. Stopping would mean he’d go back to being weak. Soft. Useless.

                This was how he atoned. Not with tact or wit, but with force. That was what he was made for—hitting hard ‘til he was the last one left standing. Anything less would be a waste of his talents. Anything else would mean going back to shaking like a dog left in the rain, feeling starved like a stray.

                He’d never be anything but a fucked-up freak, so he may as well use it, right?

“Sam?”

 

                Shit. He knew that voice.  

                Sam took his time looking up.

                He shouldn’t have.

 _ There was _nothing but raw _horror on_ Gabriel _’s face, worse than any Sam had ever seen_. Worse than the look Dean had worn when he’d caught Sam doing the same, even.

 _“I told you,”_ _Sam wanted to say_. _“I told you I would disappoint you. Yo u didn’t believe me, did you?”_

                He didn’t, of course. His voice was stuck in his throat, choked up by blood.

Gabriel’s face went blank. Silently, he strode towards Sam, eyes never leaving him.

                _Don’t._

                Sam’s hand shot out faster than he could stop it.

Before he could blink, Gabriel was flying backwards.

Bone cracked against brick, and his stomach lurched— _you hurt everyone you touch, the only thing you_ _’re good for is letting everyone down, the further you are away from everyone, the better—_ Sam turned and ran.

                It wasn’t any good, because the next thing he knew, he was being slammed down onto the concrete, Gabriel looking at him from above with glowing eyes.

                He was saying the same thing over and over, but Sam still couldn’t hear a thing. His eyes were locked on the trickle of blood running down Gabriel’s temple, twisting and winding down the planes of his face, staining the skin vivid red.

_Had he done that?_

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Gabriel repeated, and this time, Sam finally heard him. He didn’t respond though, just stared straight through him until Gabriel said it again, angrier this time, more insistent.

_Freak. Monster. Abomination._

“I had to.”

                Sam had a lot of experience with how to handle disappointment, but the way Gabriel looked at him was entirely new. But before he could even figure out what it was, put a name on it, the world went bright with a burst of gold, chased after by nothing but black.

 

  

* * *

 

 

 

                Sam woke up handcuffed to a radiator.

                That was the first thing he noticed, and only admittedly because his wrists had just about been rubbed raw by the metal. So he’d been there for at least a few hours.

                The next thing he noticed was the haze hovering over him, vaguely nauseating like the last hour before the buzz of a night of binge drinking wore off.

                So now he had two reasons to be pissed.

                He was in a tailspin, and he hadn’t even gotten to ride out the best part of his high. Now, he’d missed it while he’d been knocked out, dragged back to… the hotel, his mind filled in after a few moments of eyeing the room. His eyes landed on Gabriel, and just like that, he had a third reason.

“I’m sidelining you on this, kid,” Gabriel said, not even looking up from the table he was leaning over.

                It took Sam a few seconds to process just what that was supposed to mean through the dull ache in his skull, but mixed parts panic and anger were quick to follow the realization.

                No, no, he _had_ to take care of this himself. This was as close to atonement as he was ever going to get. He _had_ to do this. He was never in better shape than to do it too, never stronger or faster or more ruthless than when he was high.

“You can’t do that,” Sam protested, leaning as far away from the radiator as he could before the cuffs jerked him back. “We had a deal—we’d do all this together. I have to help you.”

                Gabriel kept his back to Sam, but he shook his head.

“I have to take care of this myself,” Sam pressed on, speech steadily becoming more frantic. “You can’t go back on our deal.”

“I’m not,” Gabriel countered, anger seeping into his words even as he tried to make them light. “You’re here offering me… what sounds good to you? Reinforcement? Emotional support? Pick and choose, kid.”

                And in the midst of his headache and fever and everything else haywire about his systems, it _really_ kind of pissed Sam off. He jerked at the handcuffs again. This time, they cut into his wrists, and the sting just added fuel to the fire.

“What I want is for you to get me out of these cuffs,” Sam snarled.

Withdrawal-induced starting to really overwhelm the rational side of his mind now, even as some part of him tried to fight back, push back against the tide— _this was irrational, he knew this wasn’t him_ _—_ but he was just so damn _angr_ _y._ And anger just came so easy.

“Well, we don’t always get what we want, do we?”

                The way he said it, patronizing and so fucking self-righteous, made in Sam snap.

                He lurched away from the handcuffs a third time, drawing heavy on the supernatural inside him, and the handcuffs snapped like an old rubber band. He was up on his feet in a second, but before he could even take a step towards Gabriel, something invisible threw him hard against the wall.

                It seemed like the straw that broke the camel’s back for Gabriel, because he finally whirled around, glowing blinding gold from head-to-toe.

“You _knew_ the second we drove in here that you weren’t going to be able to hack it, and you _still_ let me leave you alone,” Gabriel shouted, turning away and angrily shaking his head. He looked less angry when he opened his mouth again, and _there_ was the disappointment Sam was so familiar with. “I should’ve known better. I forget what you are sometimes. I— _I,_ of all beings, shouldn’t.”

                Sam tilted his head back and laughed, just one shade short of unhinged.

“Well, once a junkie, always a junkie, right?”

                That seemed to shock Gabriel more than anything he’d said before, because the reaction was visceral. Gabriel drew back with stunned eyes, searching Sam’s face. But then he shook his head, convincing himself of whatever it was he’d been thinking.

“I _know_ you. You would’ve fought this.”

“If I’m gonna die anyways, I figure I may as well live long enough to take Lucifer with me.”

                Gabriel stepped away, eyes never leaving Sam.

“You’re not gonna die,” he said, “And you’re going to stay here while I wrap this up. We can sort the rest of this out later.”

                It took a moment for that to properly settle in, but as soon as it had, Sam was against the idea. This was something he had to do himself if he ever wanted to make up for all he’d done.

                He could fight this.

                He was never more powerful than after he’d gotten a hit, and he was still in the thick of his high right now. Or close enough for it not to matter, anyways.

“I’m gonna finish this,” Sam snarled, squaring his shoulders. “Are you gonna try to stop me?”

                Gabriel’s face was delightfully surprised for a moment before it twisted into anger.

“Well, that works out pretty well for me, because I _am_ in the mood to punch you.”

                Sam laughed, but not for long, because Gabriel’s fist crashed hard enough against his jaw to send him dropping to the floor, out like a light.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Six Days Later**

 

                Sam called Jo back first. There were too many things the text could say, an infinite number of ways for Gabriel to tell Sam he was on his own now, that he’d split. Sam didn’t know if he could handle that. Not now. Not when he was already only a half-step away from going out and bleeding a demon dry.  Jo seemed like a better place to start.

                She only let the phone ring once.

“Sam, what the hell’s going on? I’ve been calling you for _days!_ ”

“I—I don’t know,” Sam lied, because the last thing he needed was for the _other_ person who still had some trace of trust in him to lose it. After what’d happened with Gabriel—shit. Maybe she _was_ the last person who still trusted him.

“Are you hurt? Kidnapped? Lost? C’mon, give me something to work with.”

“I’m… I don’t know,” he repeated, forcing himself onto his feet. Everything was in working order, good to go, save for the violent hunger clawing at him. “I’m fine. I need to—I need to find Gabriel.”

                If Sam found him, maybe he could—maybe he could… Shit. He just needed to talk to him while he still he could, see if there was any chance of duct-taping whatever trust Gabriel had in him back together—even if only for a while. Before Gabriel was gone for good, and it was too late.

Sam had let it happen once already with Dean, fucked up the same way, and had to watch as Dean pulled back. And he’d let him do it too, let Dean walk out even while he’d been standing right there. He could’ve done more to stop Dean, but he didn’t, and so he lost him.

                Sam didn’t think he could go through that again.

“What? Why? Are you in trouble?” Jo asked, like there was some chance Sam knew.

“I have to call you back,” he told her, already hanging up before she could fight back.

                Sam’s stomach filled with rocks as he pulled up Gabriel’s text, hovering over the button for a long few seconds. If it really was a parting text, then what?

                Where did that leave him? Alone?

                _But if it’s not, there’s still time to fix this. You can still fix this if you try._

                The text was three days old, and it was an address. Nothing more—no explanation, no elaborating. Just an address, and nothing after.

                It had all the makings of a trap, and if Sam had been any less desperate, he would’ve waited around until something sensible found its way into his mind. But he was deep in withdrawal and terrified of losing the one thing he had going for him, and that was enough to make him do it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

                If Sam hadn’t been sure it was a trap then, he was now. The hunger inside of him got rawer with every step he took, drowning out everything else in his head. It almost wasn’t a bad thing, really—it distracted him from the bodies littering the streets.

                The whole town was quiet.

                Dead.

                While he’d been knocked out, while he’d been detoxing, Famine had taken the whole town.

                He didn’t want to think about what he’d do if Famine had taken Gabriel with them. He _had_ to still be alive, didn’t he? Who else would’ve sent him that text?

                Sam repeated it in his head like a mantra, stumbling over broken bodies and shattered glass with every step. He was burning up from the inside, so _fucking hungry—_ Sam gritted his teeth until they cracked ominously with the strain and pushed on.

                The address led him to a diner, windows tinted too dark for him to see what was inside.

                It was undoubtedly a trap, but Sam figured one way or another they already knew he was there, so he drew his gun, inhaled a sharp breath of fresh air and kicked the door open.

                It was a trap.

                Sam wasn’t surprised, of course, but just once it would’ve been nice if his gut hadn’t been right.

“Where is he?” Sam growled, eyes flicking to the one person in the room who stood out.

                It was an older man, just like the other two Horseman, only this one looked frailer, feeble, a cane in his hand to hold him up. Sam couldn’t look for more than a second before his hunger swelled, sweat gathering on his brow. _Fuck,_ even if Famine wasn’t just blowing smoke, how the hell was he supposed to put up a fight when he couldn’t even _look_ at him?

“Who, your friend?” Famine asked, stringing him along. His cane clacked against the tile, once, twice, getting closer to Sam. “He’s _awfully_ protective over you, you know. Wouldn’t crack no matter what I did to him, so the two of us have had to wait for you to come to us.”

Christ, Gabriel was hurt, wasn’t he? Because Sam had been to weak to have his back when he’d gone to get Famine. Gabriel was hurt because of _him._

And the fucker who’d hurt him was right in front of Sam, and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it. Anger swelled hot in his chest, choking out his common sense.

                _All he had to do was take a step forwards, slash through the closest demon, and then he’d be strong enough to choke out whatever answers he wanted, make this fucker pay for whatever he’d done._

“ _No_!” Sam hissed at himself, clawing at his arm hard enough to leave bloody red trails in his wake.

                The pain brought him back to Earth, centered him, made him remember that he was fucked the second he took a sip. There were only two ways things would go if he did—he’d kill Famine then and there and lose the best lead he had at finding Gabriel, or he’d lose any rhyme and reason the second more blood spilled, forget about killing Famine entirely in pursuit of a better high.

                Trying to cling onto his sobriety couldn’t have been much of a better idea, but at least he still had some semblance of lucidity like this. There was no one else now. He was the only person there was to keep him from going completely off the rails, and getting a hit was the surest way to lose that control.

                _Come on, keep it together._

 “I’m gonna ask you one more time, and you’re gonna _answer_ me or so God help us both,” Sam growled, putting every ounce of control into forcing his eyes up to meet Famine’s.

“God isn’t a factor in this equation, Samuel.” Famine stopped to rattle in a breath. “You of all people ought to know that best by now.”

“Well, that’s what it’s gonna take to stop me if I don’t get what I want,” he snapped.

                Sam took a step forwards, but one step closer to Famine took him one step closer to his vice and another step closer to a throng of demons that were looking at him downright predatorily.

                He counted five, plus Famine.

                He could do five. He’d taken four at once on his own before. What was one more? He just had to stall until he could figure out a plan that’d work.

“You know, I think you’re the most interesting toy I’ve had in a long time,” came Famine’s reply, his concave mouth twisting into an unsettling grin. “There’s so much to choose from with you. So much lost, so little gained. Do you know what you want, Sam?”  

                _John clapping his shoulder, telling him he was proud—two words Sam hadn’t ever heard him say. Jess forgiving him for walking into her life, her hair falling around her shoulders in a halo, just like Sam remember. Dean passing him a beer, leaning back against the hood of the Impala._

All things he’d never get, and his heart was overfull, fit to burst. He wanted to rip it out, carve it from his chest, _anything_ to make it stop. Sam was nothing but missing puzzle pieces that’d never be filled, nothing on his own. No one cared about him. He was broken, too full of holes to be useful.

                _Lucifer would care about him. He understood what Sam was feeling. There was a solidarity between them, one that meant Sam would never feel complete unless they were together._ _And that was why he’d come here, wasn’t it? To fill the hollowness inside him?_

“No,” Sam gasped, but it was a losing battle.

                He was losing ground, even as he dragged his feet, kicked and screamed against the lies.

                Sam’s hands started to unclench, and in the last moments before Famine rendered him totally helpless, he yanked out his knife, stabbed through his palm, and _twisted._

                Sam thought he shouted, but the world was too dizzy-red with pain and nausea to tell for sure.

But his thoughts were startled clear.

                _Gabriel. He was here for Gabriel._

                Sam gritted his teeth, forcing his head up. He repeated the name like a mantra in his head, shouting it to drown out all the other thoughts that were trying to intrude. It was an imperfect defense, but it was buying him time. That was all that he needed, wasn’t it? A minute to kill?

“That’s interesting,” Famine remarked, head lilting to the side. “He had a similar reaction.”

“Where is he?” Sam hissed, one hand still clenched around the hilt of the blade, ready to yank it out the second anyone made a move towards him. “You’re _pissing_ _me_ _off_.”

                The room was getting hot, off-kilter.

                His hand was on fire where the knife had run it through, stinging like he’d doused the whole thing in vinegar. It grew hotter, burning until he had to look down.

                For a second, he was sure he was hallucinating.

                His hand was gold—no, his entire _arm_.

                Sam flexed his fingers, almost experimentally, like he was fanning a flame, and the golden gossamer threads wrapped and winding up his arm like vines.

And then there were galaxies shoved beneath his eyes, the threads of invisible worlds spinning and winding right in front of him, his to shape. It was all beyond him, more than he was meant to understand, and it was all Sam could do to root himself in the room, or else he was afraid he’d spin off into the galaxy and never come back.

                _Is this what it always feels like?_

                Gabriel didn’t answer, no second set of thoughts surfacing, and Sam realized with a jolt that this was _him._ This was all him, no Gabriel to show him what to do, to bail him out this time.

                But that was alright.

                In the end, this- wasn’t all that different from being high on blood.

                Sam’s hand shot up towards the closest demon and he reached out with the new awareness, this new limb until he found what he was looking for— _sulfur and rot, heavy black splotches like cancer on a lung—_ and reaches out just like Ruby taught him, but instead of ripping the demon out, gold light and a scream spills from its body instead before it collapses to the floor, a burnt-out husk.

                The gold in him flickered, dimmed like a lightbulb on the brink of burning out, but Sam pushed past the burn, gathering it into his core until he was burning gold, the heat almost enough to melt straight through him. It was burning away his impurities, drowning out the undercurrent of the darker energy running through him, washing away the blood, quieting the hunger. A song burned through his veins, a pulse of music that Sam can only distantly recognize as _Gabriel._

                Sam could think. He was _pure_.

“I’m not gonna ask again,” Sam threatened, yanking the knife from his hand. The wound only bled sluggishly, like Sam had only pricked himself with a needle instead of a knife, but he hardly noticed. “Tell me where he is, or I’ll find out myself.”

                Famine didn’t look surprised in the least.

“Lucifer’s not going to like that, you know,” Famine sighed, “But enough about that—why don’t you have a drink?”

                But before Sam could ask what that was supposed to mean, what _that_ even was, the demons charged him. Sam barely had time to get his knife up before the first one was on him. An arc of hot blood hit his face as he slashed, but he hardly even noticed, already moving onto the next.

                He ducked an oncoming fist, jabbed a shoulder into the pliant meat of a demon’s stomach, twisting, slashing, dodging, burning demon out of body after body. His blood sung, his knife perfectly in tune. Sam dropped one, then another, ignored the flush of heat he felt as something slashed his side, a chorus of unholy screams rising up around him, one after another.

Sam didn’t even notice the bodies around him until he pried his knife out of the last demon, breath coming in heavy pants as he finally took note of the carnage around him.

                The glow inside of him was  gone, burned up in the fight. There was nothing left to mask the cry of his junkie side, but Sam was still standing. He was _alive._ Still fighting. Not broken yet.

He stepped over the bodies, verging in on Famine—and now, _finally,_ surprise was etched clear on his face.

“Last chance,” Sam darkly told him.

He was having trouble holding onto his knife now, the hilt gone slick and slippery sometime between the last time he’d checked and now. Sam glanced down, only to find that the hand he’d stabbed earlier was the source, blood gushing freely from the wound. Just looking at it reminded his brain that, _yeah,_ he’d been stabbed, because white went off behind his eyes.

Sam just barely managed to switch the dagger to his other hand, pressing the injured one to his side to try to slow the bleeding. He staggered forwards, away from the pools of blood under the demons, drawing himself to his full height in front of Famine like he wasn’t half a second away from falling to the floor, swallowing every drop.

_“Tell me.”_

                Famine said nothing, so Sam swept the cane out from under his feet, lunged to grab ahold of his throat while he was off-balance, and dug the point of the blade hard into the base of the Horseman’s ring finger, ready to cut.

                Famine looked up at him, his ancient face still twisted with surprise. It was another few seconds before confidence bubbled back up, cold in its certainty.

“You’ll always be Lucifer’s,” was all Famine said.

                Sam cut, and he had just enough time to widen his eyes before his form dematerialized, turning to smoke under Sam’s hands.

               

 

* * *

 

 

 

               

It was half an hour before Sam found the freezer room in the back of the diner, opened it up to find Gabriel lying prone on the floor, dried blood trailed down his face. He was still, paler than Sam had ever seen him, all the life sucked straight from him.

                Sam slid onto his knees, cupping Gabriel’s face. His eyes stayed closed even as Sam lifted up his face, one hand sliding down to his neck to check for a pulse. _Did Pagans even have a pulse? How the hell was Sam supposed to administer first aid to one?_

Christ, what would he do if it was too late for that?

 _One,_ he counted. Two. Three _._ Four.

 _Four—s_ omething thrummed weakly under Sam’s fingertips, and Gabriel jerked awake so sharply that Sam cursed and nearly shot back in surprise.

Golden eyes searched the room wildly, gasps wracking his chest until he settled on Sam’s face. It took a moment for recognition to appear, but he wilted forwards against Sam’s chest the second it did.

“Oh. It’s a miracle,” Gabriel gasped out, “I thought you would’ve gotten yourself killed by now.”

                _Asshole,_ Sam thought, but it was with affection instead of anger.

“What can I say? I’m a wild card,” Sam shot back, only barely resisting the urge to laugh hysterically in relief.  Fuck, how _close_ had he been? If he’d been a day later, what would’ve happened?

                Sam’s eyes fell shut.

                His world was shrunken down to the two of them, the two of them _together—_ he’d come _so_ to being alone again, and if that happened a second time, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to pull himself away from the pit a second time.

“I’m here,” Gabriel soothed him, and Sam didn’t care if he’d said it because he’d picked up on what was going on inside his head because it was true. “A couple pieces chipped off, but no worse for the wear.”

                Sam still held on a moment longer before he finally drew back.

                The initial rush of paranoia died down, it was easier to finally take full stock of the situation. Of course, that meant that the longer he looked, the less sure he was that he shared in Gabriel’s assessment.

Gabriel was coated in blood and viscera and other things Sam couldn’t even identify from foot-to-face. He looked like the sole survivor of a slasher film, and Sam had no idea how much of the blood was his or where it’d come from. Gabriel seemed to read all of that straight from his face.

“Don’t worry. It’s not mine.” He tried to laugh, but the sound was cut short by a pained gasp. Grimacing, he flattened a hand against his side. When Sam gently tugged it away to get a look, it was stained red. “Well, most of it.”

                Sam cast a glance over his shoulder.

                He needed to get them both out of there, and he needed to do it _now._ There was no telling if any demons were still wandering around. Even if there weren’t, it was only a matter of time before someone came poking around looking for Famine, and… well, Sam’s hand was hemorrhaging everywhere, he was craving blood like a _bitch_ , and withdrawal had him weak and shaky on his feet.

                Gabriel, on the other hand, didn’t even look like he’d be able to stand on his own.

                So, yeah, it was pretty easy to guess they weren’t going to be able to mount a good defense if anything got the drop on them.

                Sam stood, drew his gun, and split the chain of the handcuffs in two with a bullet.

“Can you snap us out of here?” Sam asked, keeping an eye on the door.

                Gabriel held up his hands, tilting his head towards the silver bangles still locked around his wrists.

“Not as long as these are still on.”

                Sam cursed. He couldn’t just shoot those parts off, least of all while Gabriel was still wearing them. Putting any of the dozen tricks that his dad had taught him to work might take time they didn’t have.

                Where did that leave them, then?           

“Alright, we’re getting out of here,” Sam decided, leaning over to help leverage Gabriel up onto his feet.

                He was nothing but dead weight. By the time they’d reached the door, Sam had started to wonder if it might just be easier to carry him outright.

                There was no time to really mull it over, though. He just leaned Gabriel up against the doorframe, lifted his gun, and got ready to kick it open.

                But before he could, Gabriel had reached over to pluck his pistol straight from his hands. Sam’s gaze shot left to watch as Gabriel shifted it from hand to hand, testing its weight.

“I can still cover you. Get out your knife.”

“You sure you know how to use that?” Sam dubiously asked, though he did what’d been asked.

                The look Gabriel shot him kind of made Sam hope that he didn’t.

“I’m Pagan, Sam, not Amish,” he blandly replied, deftly checking to make sure there was a bullet in the chamber. “I know how to work technology.”

                Sam wasn’t still entirely convinced, but it wasn’t like he wanted to stand around and argue. Besides, if there _was_ anyone out there, it was probably just as well that it’d be Sam charging them with a knife. It’d draw attention away from Gabriel, if nothing else.

                So he squared his shoulders, waited for Gabriel to give him a nod, then kicked the door open.

                There were two demons waiting on the other side, and Gabriel dropped the first with two bullets to the skull. Sam swept in to finish the job before it could recover. His blade slashed through its throat like hot butter, sending a picturesque arc of blood spilling through the air.

                Sam almost thought he wouldn’t be able to rip his away.              

But as it turned out, he didn’t have to.

                The second demon tackled him hard, and his knife clattered away as they lurched to the floor in a flurry of limbs. A fist came hard across his face, meeting his nose with a crunch. Blood choked up his throat, but he dodged away from the second swing.

                A gun cracked from elsewhere in the room, and half the demon’s face was blown away in the blink of an eye. A mist of blood coated Sam’s face, but he shut his eyes and pressed his lips tight together, refusing to give in. His hand swiped wildly around the floor as tried to find his dagger, but he came up empty.

                Sam opened his eyes just in time to see his knifey in the demon’s hands and coming down towards him fast. He rolled to the side as fast as he could, but static suddenly engulfed the right side of his head. Everything was ringing too loud for him to focus, he couldn’t hear—

“Sam!” Gabriel shouted from somewhere far away, and he forced himself to crane his neck.

                Sam could see Gabriel holding something, throwing it towards him, and only when it was within arm’s reach did he realize what it was.

                He reached out, catching his gun and fixing it straight against the demon’s forehead before he pulled the trigger.

                The body collapsed onto him with god-knew-what leaking out, but all that mattered was that his knife clattered to the floor. He scrambled before the demon could recover, wrapping shaky fingers around the hilt, then drove it into the monster’s neck.

                Orange lightning cracked under its veins, and then it went still above him.

“Sam!” he heard through the ringing in his ear, but he didn’t answer.

                It was taking all his energy to stay conscious, anyways.

                Only when someone pulled the body off of him did he finally force his eyes open.

                Gabriel was leaning over him, gentle fingers tilting his head to the side. Sam’s whole head felt _stickywarmwet_ _,_ and if Gabriel’s face was any indication, it didn’t look too good.

“How’s it look?” Sam forced out, trying to sit up.

“Like you’re gonna be short an ear,” Gabriel answered, knotting fingers in the collar of his flannel to help pull him up onto his feet.

“Yeah?” Sam lifted a hand to where the heat was radiating strongest off his head and came away with a soaked red hand. He tried to smile. “Well, how do you feel about scars?”

                Gabriel just laughed, shuddery and wet, then looped an arm around Sam’s shoulder and they started to limp towards the door.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

                The room was just as Sam had left it, which was a blessing because he wasn’t sure how much further either of them could go.

                As it turned out, it was the distance from the door to the mattress because the second they were there, Gabriel just crumpled down onto it. Eyes glazy and focused three inches too far left, he looked up at Sam and tried to smile.

“Just gonna take a quick—a quick….”

                He was out before he could even finish his sentence, eyes shuttering tightly. For a heart-wrenching moment, Sam was afraid of the worst. But then his pagan’s chest rose and fell in a wet, shallow breath that almost had Sam collapsing in relief.

                Sam tried to turn around, go get started on the half a million things he needed to—bandage up any of the copious injures he’d picked up, scrub off the half gallon of blood he was wearing in the shower, find somewhere safe to stick Famine’s ring—but in the end, all he could do was fall down onto the bed and pass out beside him.

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

                Dean was dying.

                Blood coated both of them like a second skin, more just bubbling up between Sam’s fingers, no matter tightly he tried to press his hand against the wound.

“What happened?” Sam kept repeating, over and over, but Dean was choking too badly to answer and the light in his eyes was fading fast. And still, Sam couldn’t stop asking. He didn’t know why he had to know, but he knew he needed to find out. He had to. “What happened?”

                Dean coughed, once, twice, heaved in a ragged breath, and then went still in Sam’s arms. He dragged in a ragged inhale, eyes going wide.

                _No, this couldn't be--_

“Is this really all you dream about?” a voice interrupted him.

                All at once, the edges of Sam’s dream sharpened into high-definition. Blurry details turned crisp, colors blossoming brighter around him, everything starting to make sense. And Dean’s body faded to nothing in his grasp, and Sam was left kneeling empty-handed on the ground.

“No limits on your imagination, and all of it wasted on the same thoughts,” it continued on with a sigh, gravel crunching closer to Sam until shoes were in his field of vision.

                Sam didn’t look up until fingers until his jaw forced him to.

                Lucifer’s eyes, bluer than the artic, searched his face. It took all of Sam’s effort not to shy away, squeeze his eyes shut like it’d somehow help him wake up.

                He never woke up from these dreams on his own.

                Lucifer let him go, and that only happened whenever he wanted it to.

“You know, I’d been wondering how you’d suddenly learned how to tune me out.” Lucifer released Sam’s face, turning in a half-circle—just enough that he could still look at Sam out of the side of an eye. “A _Pagan_ _,_ Sam— _really_? You’d be better off handing your chips to a demon.”

“Better than working with you,” Sam bit back, but he could hear the fear in his own voice. Still, he forced himself up off the ground, gritting his jaw even as his legs took him a step back.

“ _I_ promised I would never lie to you.” Barely bridled anger rose up into his words, cold as everything else about him. “And you go to the… _God_ of Lies for help. Can you really be sure he’s not lying to you right now? Would you even know if he was only winding you up like a toy just to watch you spin?”

                Sam’s hands curled into fists, but he refused to take another step back.

“Is he?”

                He meant it to come out like a challenge, not a question.

                But somewhere between his mind and his mouth, his confidence cracked, and fear found its way into his voice. Lucifer’s lips just curled into a cool smile, and somehow, Sam felt like he’d lost a game he hadn’t even known they were playing.

“No,” he conceded, “But does it matter?”

                _It’s all that matters. It’s all there’s left for me to do._

                He didn’t say it aloud, of course, but Sam had the creeping suspicion that Lucifer had heard him anyways.

“It isn’t time yet,” was all Lucifer said, shrugging halfheartedly as he turned to fully face Sam. “You’ll come to me when it is. What either of us does between now and then isn’t important. What you’re doing is for nothing. The path we’re one may change, but it will always end in the same place.”

“You’re wrong,” Sam insisted. If he ever let himself believe anything else, then Lucifer would be right. He just had to hold out. Just a few more months—just long enough to finish this all for good. “I’m going to stop you, or I’m going to die. That’s how this ends.”

                Lucifer looked pityingly at him.  

                And then the world flickered black around them. Lucifer just looked as confused as Sam felt, but before either of them could get out another word, Sam was falling.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

                Sam crashed, and jerked awake with a heaving gasp. He was trapped, needed to get out—he thrashed, struggling to try to get on his feet. A hand on his shoulder pulled him back, and he threw a wild elbow, but it met nothing but air.

“Hey, you’re fine. It’s all fine,” Gabriel’s voice soothed him, repeating it until Sam finally calmed down, heaving in a ragged breath after breath until he came back down to earth.

He’d been… fuck, it’d been so long.

Sam scrubbed a hand over his face. He wanted to be awake as he could get, never go back to sleep if it meant he’d have to deal with _that_ every time he closed his eyes. Not again. He didn’t know how long he could do it.

“You were talking,” Gabriel explained when Sam looked back up at him.

                With the look on his face, Sam could tell he knew with who.

“I need a drink,” Sam finally rasped, rolling out of bed before Gabriel could stop him.

On shaky legs, he stumbled to the bathroom.

                Adrenaline fading, he could feel the beginnings of a migraine hammering at the back of his skull. He felt off-balance, wobbly like he’d taken a hit to the side of his head.

                Sam splashed freezing cold water on his face again and again until he could finally cut the last threads of sleep. There was no way he’d be going back to bed tonight. _Absolutely not,_ he decided as he stared down into the porcelain sink.

                Sam was almost afraid to lift his eyes up into the mirror. He had to, though. And finally, he did. Just to make sure it was still his own face looking back.

                It was.

                Just in worse shape than he’d remembered.

                He was sheet white as someone in shock, only highlighting the difference between his skin and both of his black eyes. It almost made him a little like a domino.

Blood from his broken nose had stained him from skin to shirt, and more from his ear matted down the side of his skull. Gingerly, Sam turned his head to the side and lifted his good hand. His hair was stained the color of rust, and the whole area was almost fever-hot to the touch.

He didn’t even want to look at his bad hand. It was doing a good job making itself known without the added visual aspect.

Sam glanced mournfully over to the shower.

There was nothing he wanted more than to boil himself in a hot shower for an hour, but he wasn’t sure he could stay long enough to take one.

So as a consolation prize, he grabbed a hand towel from the rack and held it under the faucet. He could at least try to clean himself off a little. Tomorrow morning, he’d try to think of something more permanent. Maybe check into a hospital if he couldn’t find a way to get Gabriel’s cuffs off fast enough, or if he wasn’t well enough to do his magic yet.

As if on cue, Gabriel’s silhouette appeared in the doorway. He looked even pastier than Sam in the muted glow of the nightlight, even closer to falling over. Leaning against the counter, he reached around Sam with a hissed breath to pop the medicine cabinet open. His fingers glided over several bottles before he finally pulled one out, popped the cap, and dumped a few white tablets into Sam’s hand.

“Painkillers,” he said by way of an explanation.

                Sam was pretty sure Gabriel had enough types of painkillers in his medicine cabinet to start a small drug empire, but he was too out of it to ask. He washed the pills down with a handful of water, mumbling his thanks.

“You can go back to bed,” Sam told him, pulling the rag out from under the water. He brought it to his face, blotting gently at the worst of his injuries. “I’m fine.”

                Gabriel gave him an acerbic once-over, but Sam pretended to be too busy watching himself work in the mirror to notice.

“Well, you _look_ like shit.” Gabriel’s eyes trailed upwards to Sam’s hand. Leaning forwards, he brushed a few wayward stands of hair out of the way to get a better look. His face made it clear he didn’t like what he saw. “Here, let me,” he murmured, gently catching Sam’s wrist in his hand.

“I’m fine,” Sam repeated, but he still let go.

                Gabriel lifted himself up onto the counter, then gently turned Sam’s neck to the side. The cloth pressed gently against his skin. Even light as the touch was, it was all Sam could do not to flinch. He shut his eyes tightly to keep from wincing, not wanting to be any more of a burden than he already was.

                Gabriel needed to rest just as much as he did, but there he was, being tended to like a little kid. Sam hated it, just as much as hated himself for _wanting_ Gabriel to be there. It was selfish.

                _He_ was selfish.

“How’d you find me?” Gabriel asked after a minute, breaking Sam from his quiet guilt.

“You texted me the address of the place. I saw it when I woke up.”

“Mm. Wasn’t me. You do a good enough job nearly getting killed all on your own without me cryptically texting you addresses.”

“That’s an exaggeration,” Sam scoffed, though he wasn’t delusional enough to try to claim it was completely wrong.

                Gabriel didn’t even dignify him with a response, just a snorted laugh.

                The conversation died out, leaving them in a comfortable silence. Sam leaned into Gabriel’s touch, trying to keep from dozing off where he stood.

“What happened?” Sam finally asked, trying to keep himself awake.

And if he was being honest, he could hardly keep the question down any longer. It was stupid, he knew that, but Gabriel had always seemed so untouchable. So above anyone else he’d ever known, like he was up on a pedestal looking down on everyone else.

“I guess I make a good Happy Meal,” he tried to joke, but there was something strained in his voice. “Famine, he was, uh… feeding off souls. Waiting ‘til they got soaked in lust or desire or whatever else, then sucking them up.”

                Gabriel’s face screwed up, but his eyes were dark as Sam had ever seen them.

“He… got in my head. Got the drop on me while I was distracted. Would’ve sucked the soul out of me if I had one, but lucky for both of us… well, I _do_ have one, kind of—point being that he couldn’t kill me in one go. So he kept me around, let me charge back up, then drained me again.”

“He knew I’d come after you.”

“Oh, so you _knew_ it was a trap. I wasn’t clear on that,” Gabriel dryly replied, venom in his voice. Sam was proud he kept from flinching. “You shouldn’t have come after me, Sam.”

“What, you wanted me to just leave you?” he asked, incredulous.

                He heard Gabriel heave out a sigh.

“What I’m saying is that If Lucifer had been there, this all would’ve been for nothing.”

“Lucifer isn’t gonna abduct me,” Sam protested, pressing on when Gabriel only sent him a dubious look. “He doesn’t think he has to because… he says I’m going to come to him in the end.”

“And who told you that?” Sam went silent, and Gabriel just sighed a second time. “Listen to me, Sam. I’ve seen all of these guys in their prime. If they were at their best now, you would’ve been dead, captured— _whatever—_ the second you walked through the door. It doesn’t matter if anything happens to me, Sam. You have to keep going, with or without me.”

                _And what? Go back to being alone?_

                Sam said nothing, even when Gabriel dropped the rag back onto the countertop.

“Come back to bed.”

                Sam hesitated. He _wanted_ to, but guilt was wrapping tight around him, keeping him rooted to the spot. He dropped his head, but before Gabriel could make up his mind one way or another, Sam reached out, grabbing ahold of his arm. Gabriel’s eyes met his.

“I’m sorry. For everything.”

                _For letting you down. For not being there when you got caught. For dragging you down now. Sorry that I have to keep apologizing because I never stop letting you down, and I never will._

“You fucked up,” Gabriel agreed, and for a moment, Sam’s heart curled in on itself. “But so did I.”

“What?”

“Yeah, well, turns out there’s things I still want too.” His voice was strangely flat, like he was pushing out everything else. “I’ve been trying to pretend like that’s not the case for centuries, but that didn’t fly over so well with Famine. He saw straight through that, and I got caught. Pretty big fuckup if you ask me.”

                Gabriel’s eyes flicked back up to find Sam’s.

“You gonna hold that against me?”

                Sam felt almost like he was being corralled, but he answered anyways.

“Why would I?”

“And _that’s_ my fucking point,” Gabriel crisply replied, eyes drilling into Sam. “Everyone around you could screw shit up left and right, and you’d still forgive them, but the second that _you_ fuck something up yourself, it’s unforgivable.”

“I let out the _Devil.”_

“And your brother broke the First Seal, even though Heaven and Hell had to maneuver him into place to do it. And _I knew_ everything that was going to happen, but instead of telling you, I dropped you into a time loop. So you fucked up, _fine,_ but a thousand people had to screw everything else up before you.”

                But in the end, the responsibility fell onto _him._ He’d pulled the trigger, no matter who’d handed him the gun. The blood was on his hands.

“Listen, Sam. I know who you are, and the only mistake you’ve ever made twice is putting more than you can handle on your shoulders. Even after everything, you’d been through, you’re still a better person than you have any right to be. And at the end of the day, you’re going to do the right thing.”

                But later that night, when Sam was back in bed, he’d lie awake wondering if Gabriel was really right.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

                It took a couple of days and a few called-in favors, but they got the cuffs off.

                Still, Sam hardly slept for the next week. Every time he closed his eyes, Lucifer was lying in wait, prying at him, taunting, preaching.

                Gabriel knew it too, because guilt was plain on his face every time Sam jerked awake.

                They didn’t talk about it.

                And sometimes, when Sam looked in the mirror and wondered if his eyes looked a little more golden than they were supposed to, he wondered if he should ask.

                But he didn’t.

                And if Loki knew, he didn’t ask either.           

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

**May 2 nd**

 

 

                Sam’s phone dinged on the nightstand, but he was too comfortable to bother checking it. It’d taken them ten minutes to arrange the blankets in a way that cheated neither of them, and Loki was nothing but warmth behind him, the steady rise-fall of his chest slowly lulling Sam to sleep.

                He closed his eyes tighter, hoping that whoever was texting him would wait ‘til later.

                It seemed like they couldn’t though, because his phone chimed again a minute later, then again after the next. By the fourth time, annoyance was enough to get him to twist halfway out from under the covers to snatch it off the nightstand.

                He squinted at his bright phone screen in the dimly lit room, eyes taking a moment to adjust before he could read all four texts.

_Where are you? -JH_

_Latitude and longitude, preferably. -JH_

_Seriously, text me back. -JH_

_I don’t know if this technically qualifies as an emergency, but it’s important. War related. -JH_

“Mm, important?” Loki half-intelligently hummed from behind him.

“Uh, I think so. It’s something vague. From Jo.” Sam tried not to be irritated as he rolled over, ruining their careful blanket arrangement. “Hey, where are we?”

“Earth. Tiny planet in the Milky Way. Ever heard of it?” Loki uncooperatively muttered, sounding just as irritated as Sam felt.

“Think you can be a little more specific?”

“Ugh. Scandinavia.”

                Sam sighed and just shoved the phone at him.

“Answer her. And don’t be a jackass about it.”

                He buried his face into one of Loki’s unreasonably high-thread count pillows and tried not to mourn the loss of their nap. Of course the emergency would have to happen after they’d gone and mutually tired themselves out, wouldn’t it?

“What’s the point of a secret hideout if you have to tell people where it is?” Loki grumbled in complaint beside him, but Sam could hear him typing nonetheless. “You’re lucky I like her, you know.”

“You’re lucky _I_ like you,” Sam tiredly shot back, muffled by the pillow.

“I tell myself that every…” Loki stopped his faux-sappy monologue short, a sound of confusion leaving his mouth. “Hey, sit up. She just texted back, “ _D on’t shoot.”_ That’s not very reassuring.”

                Sam lifted his head, shifting in bed to sit up and lean over to check for himself. Loki hadn’t been lying. It was there, right under the coordinates he’d sent. Sam blinked at it a few moments, like that might help figure out just what the hell she’d meant, but all it took was a second for the meaning to become clear.

                There was a rustle of fabric, and when Sam looked up to see where it’d come from, there was a man standing over the foot of their bed. Sam was already reaching back over to the nightstand before anyone else moved, grabbing his gun.

 _“Fucking—”_ Loki started, and Sam finished the sentence by sending a bullet through the man’s chest.

                The man just looked down at where blood was staining his starched white shirt, unimpressed.

“I told her to tell you not to shoot,” he remarked, almost conversationally.

                Sam was about to send a second bullet flying, but the man’s voice rattled around in his head. His mind insisted that he knew it. He just couldn’t place from where.

                He hesitated on pulling the trigger, eyeing the stranger up and down. He was dressed like someone on their way home from the office—top three shirt buttons undone, no belt or tie, sleeves rolled up to the elbow—but the rest of him looked a bit too unkempt for that. A scruffy beard and dark messy hair offset squinting stark blue eyes and… blue eyes. _Blue eyes._

 _“Cas,”_ Sam realized, his gun falling to his side.

“Hello, Sam,” the angel replied, head tilting to side as he looked critically between the two of them.

                And suddenly, Sam was aware of a lot of things.

                The foremost being that underneath the sheets on their laps, both he and Loki were very, _very_ undressed. Thankfully, Loki seemed to be just as aware, because the next thing he did was snap them both into a set of clothes. Which took care of his most immediate concern.

                Admittedly, that probably shouldn’t have been what he thought of first, considering that it’d been, what? Four years since he and Castiel had last seen each other? Right around the time that he and Dean had split up. Dean had gotten Jo and Cas and Bobby and, well, just about everyone, but that was because he’d deserved them. It’d been _him_ who’d fucked everything up, after all.

“Is Dean dead?” was the first thing out of Sam’s mouth.

                It struck him that he didn’t know what he wanted the answer to be, and he didn’t know how he felt about that either. Or how he was supposed to, for that matter.

“Your brother is… fine,” Castiel answered, even though the doubt was evident in his voice. “But he’s not the reason for my visit.”

                Sam could feel Loki’s gaze burning into him, but he ignored it and sprang out of bed, tugging nervously at the collar of his newly-materialized shirt.

“Then what is?” he asked, shelving thoughts of his brother as soon as he could.

“I’m here on… Jo’s request.” Castiel’s lips twisted into something that might’ve been embarrassment on anyone else as he glanced over Sam’s shoulder to Loki. “I apologize if I’m interrupting something. She mentioned that you might not, ah, be alone.”

“Mm,” Loki agreed, though he quieted when Sam sent him a look.

“Jo? Is she alright?”

“She’s well. She was the one who sent me to find you.” Castiel shifted on his feet, looking uncomfortable for a split second. “I was with your brother. We were looking for something we thought might help against Lucifer, and—”

“You mean the gun?” Sam cut in, brows furrowing.

He knew that Jo had been helping Dean with it, but what exactly that had to do with him was beyond him. If Dean had ever wanted his help, he could’ve come himself.

“Ah, she told you,” Castiel realized, eyes flicking to the side. “Yes. We were looking for a piece of the gun. It ended up leading us to War’s current location. I knew _she’d_ asked around for any information on them, but I didn’t realize it was on your—well, both of your behalves, I suppose.”

“She’s already there?”

                Castiel nodded his affirmation, and Sam was wheeling around, tucking guns and knives and books into his clothes. One last ring, and then he was _set_.

                The thought filled with as much terror as closure.

“Hold on,” Sam told Cas, pushing the thought out of his mind—one thing at a time. “Just let me get my stuff and we’ll go.”

                Loki sidled beside him as he packed, glancing over his shoulder to where Cas watched on the other side of the room before he spoke, low like he was afraid the angel might overhear.

“You alright, Sam?”

                Sam faltered, fingers digging into the shirt in his hands, but only for a moment.

“I’m fine,” he said, even though he knew that probably wasn’t the truth. But as long as he pretended he was, it wouldn’t be a problem. He could just ignore it, not put any thought into it, and he’d be _fine_.

“You sure?” Gabriel pressed on, careful. “You haven’t seen anyone from… well, you haven’t seen any of them in years, and suddenly your old angel buddy just shows up out of the blue. It’s disorienting for _me,_ and I haven’t—I don’t even know him.”

“I’m fine,” Sam repeated, quieter, more to himself than Loki.

                He straightened before Gabriel could probe any further, turning to Castiel.

“I’m ready.”

“Good.” Castiel crossed the room, dropping a hand onto Sam’s shoulder. Only as an afterthought did he look over Sam’s shoulder at Gabriel, then back at Sam. “Is he coming?”

“Don’t know why you even have to ask,” Gabriel snorted, shouldering his way beside Sam.

                Castiel looked between the two of them a little longer, a silent question on his face when his eyes found their way back to Sam, but he didn’t put it into words.

                And then Castiel was dragging them through space, not even giving either of them so much as a warning—at least some things never changed.

 

  

* * *

 

               

 

                Sam landed two feet above the ground, and he felt every inch of it when his feet slammed hard into concrete. If he hadn’t been too busy swallowing bile from the rough trip, he probably would’ve been worried he’d sprained something.

                Sam opened his eyes after a few moments and froze. 

“Kind of a rough landing there, don’t you think?” Loki grumbled from a yard away, rubbing a hand over his face.

                Sam hardly heard him.

                All around him were bodies. Not even two feet away from where he was standing, a woman laid face-up, her eye sockets charred black. Then a yard away from that was a newly dead man, blood still seeping out of his stomach to run down the curb into the street drain.

                Everywhere he looked, he saw more carnage—cars turned on their sides, buildings a gust of wind away from toppling over, smoking ruins of things burned so badly he couldn’t even tell what they were. This, _this_ looked like the apocalypse the movies had promised.

“You didn’t mention you were dropping us straight into a fucking angel warzone,” Loki snapped, keeping his voice limited to an angry whisper. “That would’ve been real fuckin’ nice to know.”

“My condolences.”

                Sam was momentarily worried that Castiel was about to join the bodies littering the street, but Loki turned to him before he made that fear a reality.

“I don't like this, Sam," he said, but his mind was elsewhere.

"Where’s Jo?" Sam asked. "You didn’t leave her on her own in a battleground, right?”

                Castiel shifted on his feet, almost looking guilty.

“Shit,” Sam muttered, already pulling out his phone.

                Only there was no signal, because of course there wasn’t.

“Where’d you leave her?” Sam asked, shaking his head in irritation as he pocketed his phone.

                Castiel almost managed to look sheepish.

“The other side of town. That was where I _meant_ to take us.”

“Well, can you still do it?"

                Castiel’s lips pressed together, and for a few instants, he looked sad. Not angel-sad, like Sam gotten so familiar with, but genuine, actual sadness. For the first time, Sam almost could've mistaken him for a human. 

                Maybe Sam wasn’t the only one who’d changed in the past few years.

“Not easily,” Castiel admitted, “I've been cut off from Heaven for years. It won’t be long before I'm of no use to anyone.”

                He said it so straightforwardly that Sam wasn’t sure if it’d be any help to try to tell him otherwise. But he and Cas had been… well, maybe not close—that’d always been Dean—but they’d at least been friends once. He couldn’t say _nothing_.

“You know that’s not the only reason why Dean and everyone else cares about you, right?” he asked, but Castiel hardly seemed to hear him.

“So, what? We’re walking?” Loki asked, looking greatly unsettled by the idea.

“Cas, you can draw power from my soul, right?” Sam cut in, ignoring the look Gabriel sent him. "Like jump-starting an engine, right?"

“Yes,” he slowly answered, eyeing Sam carefully. After glancing over his shoulder just to double-check if anyone was there, he stepped towards Sam. “This might hurt.”

“I can handle it.”

                Sam felt Gabriel’s eyes on him from the corner of his vision, but he didn’t look, just shut his eyes, preemptively tensing up. One of Castiel’s hands fell onto his shoulder, the other lingering over his front. Sam felt the numb buzz of snow-white Grace, and then Castiel was inside him, probing, grabbing ahold of his soul, draining energy like a vampire would drain blood.

Sam felt like his legs start to shake beneath him, going lightheaded, dizzy, just on the brink of passing out when the intrusion finally stopped sapping him. Still, it lingered, not _doing_ anything as far as Sam could tell, but still decisively _there._

                And then it was gone, and Sam’s eyes snapped back open with a gasp.

                Loki was holding him up now, but when his eyes flicked over to Castiel, he was regarding the two of them with nothing short of uneasiness, uncertainty.

                He said nothing though, the look wiped fully off his face by the time Sam stood fully on his feet.

“Good to go?” Gabriel asked Cas, backing away from Sam.

                Castiel’s face returned to confusion as he looked down at his hands, like he wasn’t quite sure, but he nodded after a moment.

“Yes,” he answered, taking ahold of both of them, and then—this time Sam thankfully landed both firmly on his feet and firmly on the floor.

                Gabriel seemed to have a similarly smooth landing, because his brows raised in a silent question. It never quite saw its birth, though, cut short.

“It’s been half an hour,” Jo dryly replied, sending Sam’s attention snapping to the corner of the room—it was an apartment, if he had to guess, and one that’d seen better days—where she stood. One of her eyes was bruised black and a nasty cut framed her jaw, but all in all, she looked to be in pretty good shape.

                She was just as quick to asses all the three of them—first Gabriel, who she seemed pleasantly surprised to see, then Castiel, where her eyes locked on the blood staining his shirt, and finally Sam, who she regarded with wryly raised brows.

“I told you not to shoot,” she reminded him.

“It would’ve been helpful if you told me what not to shoot at.”

                Castiel interrupted their exchange, stepping towards Jo.

“Where is he?” he asked, eyes looking around the room.

“I don’t know,” Jo sighed, shaking her head. “I think he went out to take a leak. Don’t know what you said to him, but he’s pissy today.”

                Sam stiffened at the exact same time as Gabriel, his heart jumping up into his throat.

“Who?”

                Jo froze, sharing a brief glance with Castiel.

“You were supposed to tell him,” she hissed, but before Castiel could answer, the _who_ in question walked into the room.

“Tell him what?”

                Sam froze, legs twitching towards the door. Maybe it wasn’t too late to run, maybe he could still get out—Dean followed Jo’s gaze, and his eyes found Sam.

                _Too late now._

                If there was anyone who was more surprised than Sam, it was Dean. His shock was visceral, eyes widening in open-mouthed surprise. He took a step back, hand falling to the back of his jeans, right where Sam knew he kept his gun.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Dean accusingly asked, finding his voice first. And then his eyes slid behind Sam, right to where Gabriel was standing, just as tense as everyone else in the room. “And what the hell are you doing with the _Trickster_?”

                From behind Dean, Sam could see Jo and Castiel’s faces twist with confusion, but they were only an afterthought, secondary to who was in front of him.

                _Dean._

Five years since he’d last seen him. Five years since he’d last heard his voice. Five years since Dean had told him they were better apart and never called back.

                Sam didn’t know what to say, and he may never have said anything at all if Gabriel hadn’t spoken up for him.

“It’s Loki, technically,” he corrected Dean, stepping easily around Sam. A sharp smile broke out on his face. “But Gabriel’s what my friends call me.”

“Well, I sure as hell ain’t your friend,” Dean snarled, eyes snapping to Sam. “Why the hell’s he here?”

                Sam’s face must’ve given it away, all without him ever needing to say a word. Dean always _had_ been able to read him like a book.

“You’re kidding,” Dean realized, eyes going wide. He stared at Sam almost desperately, waiting for him to object, say something to change his mind, and when he didn’t, his eyes lit with anger. “You’re kidding me. It’s end times, and t _his_ is what you’ve been doing? Casting your lots with some Pagan?”

                Anger flared up in Sam’s chest now, just as bright. Dean had been the one to cut ties with _him._ If he’d wanted Sam to turn out better, have someone to fall back onto—well, all he’d had to do was stay. But he hadn’t, and Sam had been _alone._

“It’s not like you left me with much choice,” Sam snarled back, defenses flaring.

                Gabriel was by his side, not saying anything, not moving, just there, eyes on Dean like he was ready to dropkick him the second Sam gave the order. Christ, Sam loved him.

                Christ.

                Sam _loved_ him.

                And maybe Dean saw it too, because his face just grew whiter.

“ _Jesus,_ Sam, do you even _remember_ Ruby? Haven’t we already been through this?”

“You say that like we’re still doing this together,” Sam replied, surprising them both with the chill in his voice. “You’re here for the gun. I’m here for War’s ring. Way I see it, we can go our separate ways now. You said it—we’re stronger apart, right?”

                Dean blanched at having his own words thrown back at him, hurt flashing across his face, but Sam felt too sick to enjoy it. How could he? Even after everything, Dean was still his brother. Sam still loved him. And seeing Dean look at him like he was sick, searching for words he couldn’t find—it still hurt just as much as it had back then.

It was all Sam could do to keep his face set straight. He was afraid if he let go of that, he might just break down entirely.

                Dean searched his face for a long time before he realized he wasn’t going to find whatever he was looking for, and his eyes went hard, any traces of Sam’s brother gone.

“So get the hell out.”

                Sam almost did, the knot in his throat stinging like nothing else, but Castiel interrupted before he could.

“War has the piece, Dean. Our goals are aligned.”

“I _know,_ Cas,” Dean snapped, not meeting Sam’s eyes any longer.

“Look, I’m not a hundred percent sure what’s going on here, but I trust Sam,” Jo spoke up, eyes uncertain as she looked between the two of them. “I’m not gonna hang him out to dry.”

“He’s buddies with a _Pagan,”_ Dean snapped.

                Jo stepped closer, drawing herself up to her full height.

“You’re really gonna say that to _me,_ like I don’t know half the places you’ve gone looking for leads? I’m not gonna pretend I like to be lied to—” She shot Sam a pointed _we’ll talk about this later_ look, and then looked back to Dean. “But if someone wants to put Lucifer into the ground, then I don’t really give a shit about who they are.”

 _“Jo,”_ Dean started, but Jo cut him short with a shout, the venom in her voice enough to make him recoil.

“You didn’t see what he did to my mom!”

Dean seethed silently, jaw clenched tight. Then, he finally untensed, turning to face Sam with unfeeling eyes.

“Cas and I tracked him to a warehouse,” Dean finally relented, voice stiff. “We’re going tonight while it’s dark. Less chance of getting caught up in any angel-demon bitchfight.”

                And then he turned around, pulling a flask from his pocket and draining it in a go.

                Sam stepped uncertainly after him, wanting to say something. It didn’t seem right to leave things like this, not after so long. But even after he’d spent thousands of hours thinking of what he would say if he saw Dean again, he couldn’t find the words.

                It didn’t seem to matter though, because Dean just looked halfway over his shoulder and said,

“Don’t.”

                Sam let him go.

 

 

* * *

 

 

                Sam ended up in the kitchen, which was probably because it directly correlated to being the furthest away from the den of the apartment as he could get. Unsurprisingly, that where Dean and Castiel were—the last time he’d checked, they’d been leaning over a table, whispering between themselves with words that were clearly meant to be shouted.

                Gabriel had followed him in an usual bout of silence, not pushing, not doing anything—just there, ready for when, for if Sam wanted to talk.

                And Sam could only think about what he’d realized earlier.

                _I love you._

                He tried to say a hundred different times before Jo came into the kitchen, but it never once made it all the way out of his mouth.

                Sam eyes flicked up to Jo, but hers were firmly on Gabriel.

“So, a god, huh?” she asked, still not sounding entirely convinced.

                Gabriel’s lips turned up at the edges, and he raised his brows.

“Mhm—impressed?”

“Heard that Pagans eat human flesh,” she remarked, dropping a hand to her hip—where her gun was tucked into her jeans, undoubtedly.

“Oh, I don’t bite unless Sam wants me to.”

                Despite himself, Sam’s mouth curled into a smirk, which seemed to please Gabriel even more than the indignant _look_ Jo shot at him.

                After a moment, Jo finally let down whatever guard she’d been keeping up and settled into an adjoining chair. She cast a brief glance over her shoulder before she casually asked Sam,

“You holding up fine?”

                _No._

“Dean and I haven’t been brothers for years,” he numbly answered instead, wishing it could at least _felt_ that way too. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Brothers aren’t worth shit,” Gabriel spoke up, surprising Sam.

                He’d _never_ heard Gabriel talk about his family, not willingly. And even now, his eyes were off somewhere far away, stubbornly refusing to meet Sam’s. But he’d _talked_ about them, and for what? For Sam’s benefit? It was a stupid thing, something he was probably reading too much into, but the _one-two_ skip of Sam’s heart in his chest was impossible to ignore anyways.

“Yeah, I’m starting to get why my dad just decided to buy me a dog instead,” Jo lightly added.

 _“There’s_ an idea—you want a new dog, Sam?”

                It was impossible to stay upset without feeling guilty now, not when the two of them were clearly trying to cheer him up. Sam did his best to force a smile, lifting his eyes to Loki’s.

“I don’t know. Would you take care of the housebreaking?”

                Loki grinned at him like he was the sun in the sky, and just for a moment, Sam’s grief was forgotten. Fuck. He was so fucked, stupidly in love with him.

                Sam couldn’t tell him.

Not when they were in the endgame. Not when the day he’d finally come face to face with Lucifer was close. One way or another, Sam didn’t think he was going to see another sunrise after that. He couldn’t tell someone who was going to lose him that he was in love with them. It wasn’t fair.

                And Sam was at peace with that, almost surprisingly so. Because he knew that Loki would be fine without him, as long as he could take Lucifer down with him.

                Loki didn’t need to know.

“Cigarette?” Jo offered him, breaking him from his thoughts.

                Sam almost turned her down, but, well, there wasn’t much time left now. If they got the ring, then it was on to Lucifer. If they didn’t, well… they’d get it, or that would be that.

                Who gave a shit if he smoked in the meantime?

“Sure,” he accepted, taking one from her pack and ignoring the look Gabriel gave him.

                He looked out the window, eyed the bursts of light and heard the screams echoing from off in the distance—fighting—and took a long drag.

               

 

* * *

 

 

                Night fell faster than Sam would’ve liked.

“Alright,” Dean said as he walked into the kitchen, pointedly avoiding looking at Sam. “Cas and I are heading out in five minutes. Be in the living room before then.”

                Sam was there in two, Gabriel at his side. He checked all the mechanics in his gun to give himself something to focus on as he waited, ignoring the look Castiel was giving him.

                After five minutes, Dean joined them. He and Castiel shared a look that no one else seemed to understand, then Dean nodded and moved towards the door, motioning for everyone else to follow.

“Sam, may I speak to you for a moment?” a lingering Castiel asked after Jo and Gabriel had filtered out into the hallway.

                Dean was still in the doorway, and he heard, eyes flicking distrustfully back to the two of them. He stopped in the doorway, clearly ready to come back in.

“ _Alone,”_ Castiel pointedly added, meeting Dean’s eyes.

“What have you got to tell him that you can’t tell me?” he asked, eyes narrowing.

                Castiel didn’t humor him with an answer, just stood off against him with another one of their impossible to understand staring matches. It took a few moments, but Dean broke first and joined the others outside with a scowl.

“Sam,” Castiel begun once he was sure Dean was truly out of earshot, “When I touched your soul, I found something… strange.”

“What do you mean? Strange how?” Sam asked, though he had to swallow a few times before he was sure his voice wouldn’t break.

“I’m not entirely sure,” he slowly admitted, looking Sam over cautiously. “I only know that it’s changed since the last time we’ve met. Your soul is stronger now, more powerful than any human’s should be—even a vessel’s.”

                Sam’s mind instantly circled back to Famine, back to the demon he’d drained. But that’d been weeks ago. Any high from that would’ve burnt out ages ago. And even still, what he’d drank there was only a drop in a lake compared to how much he’d been tossing back during certain times back when he and Cas had still been friends. That _couldn’t_ be it.

“What do you mean, changed? I’m not the same person I was five years ago. Are you sure it’s not anything to with that?” Sam asked, anxious.

                Castiel’s face was written over with confusion, like he understood it all even less than Sam.

“No,” he answered, shaking his head. “If that were the case, then I’d be able to tell what had changed—demon blood, magic, what have you. Whatever caused this and whatever _this_ is exactly, was hidden.”

“So, what?” Sam asked, “You think Loki was hiding something from you?”

“It would be the logical answer.”

                Sam looked down at his hand, the one with the knotted scar in the center, and slowly curled it into a fist. Memories of Famine resurfaced, of how he’d burned the demons out the vessels— _smote_ them, all with Gabriel trapped in the back. And then his mind went back further, to how he’d lit up with gold, Gabriel talking through him to Pestilence.

                _Your soul is stronger now,_ Cas had told him.

                Sam knew why.

“You should tread carefully, Sam,” Castiel told him, “I see no reason why he would hide his influence unless there was something he wasn’t willing to let me see.”

“I trust him,” Sam quietly replied.

                Castiel lingered until it was clear Sam had nothing more to say, face curling into concern. Still, he said nothing more, and just moved to join the others outside.

                Sam stood alone for a long few moments before he finally went to join them. 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

 

 

 

                Every so often while they walked, Dean would glance over his shoulder at him, search his face for a few seconds before he turned back away, never saying whatever he was thinking aloud.

                Sam wondered if it was for the best, then decided he didn’t really want to know.

                He couldn't help but to wonder if he shouldn't have come along at all.               

 

               

* * *

 

 

 

                 He shouldn't have.

 

 

* * *

 

             

 

            It'd started well--really. A warehouse, two guards by each entrance.

            Dean had gone to take out the ones by the front, sent Jo and Cas to clear out the ones by the side, left Sam and Gabriel to deal with the ones in the back. They were supposed to cover all their entrances, go in together, make sure War couldn't get out.

            Only Dean hadn't stuck to the plan,  _no,_ he'd had to charge in first, thrown caution to the wind.

            And Sam had run in the second he'd realized, just in time to watch War level a gun to his head, and he'd--he'd fucked up, panicked, let whatever it was in him out, reached out with gold threads and choked War where he'd stood.

            Gabriel and Cas and Jo made it in the room one second too late, just in time to see War's body crumple to the ground, burnt out husks where his eyes should've been.

            Dean looked up at Sam, cheeks going bloodless, eyes going wide.            

            Sam should've insisted that he and Dean went their separate ways, should've left the  _second_ he saw him, should've done everything different.

 

             

* * *

 

 

“What the hell was that?” Dean shouted, not even waiting for an answer before his attention snapped to Gabriel. He stalked forwards, a look on his face that Sam only seen right before Dean racked up body counts and property damage. He shoved Gabriel, eyes going wide. “What the hell have you been doing to him?”

“I haven’t done _shit,”_ Gabriel snarled, shoving Dean right back.

                Dean drew his gun in an instant, jamming it straight under Gabriel’s chin. The Pagan just flashed his teeth, tilting his head back to give Dean a better angle.

“ _Fix_ _him_ ,” Dean ordered, digging in the barrel of his gun.

“Or _what?”_ Gabriel mockingly challenged him, head tilting patronizingly to the side. “You gonna shoot me with a half-finished gun?”

                _Half-finished?_

                Sam’s eyes dropped to the gun in Dean’s hands—it was a Colt revolver, made of old iron and looking like it was, in fact, only half put-together. Sam’s mind spun back to the gun Jo had told him about, the one Crowley had said could kill anything—he was moving before he could stop himself, and Dean was too focused on Gabriel to even see him coming.

                Sam leveled his gun at Dean’s hands, finger steady on the trigger.

“Put it down,” Sam ordered, fury like ice in his voice.

                Only then did Dean notice him, green eyes going wide as he saw the pistol aimed at him.

“Are you serious, Sam?” he snapped, shoulders going tight.

“How badly do you want to find out?”

                Dean still didn’t look he believed him, gaze flicking between Gabriel and Sam like he didn’t know which to look at. His stare settled on Gabriel, growing murderous in a flash.

“What did you do to him?” Dean growled, jamming the barrel of the Colt in harder.

“I trust him,” Sam snarled, and for the first time, he fully believed it. There was no doubt in his mind any longer, nothing clawing at the back of his skull to tell him that this could just be Ruby all over again. He trusted Gabriel, and that was that. “Is that really so hard to believe?”

                Gabriel just smirked up at Dean, shrugging.

“That, and I’m good in bed,” he taunted, not even half as afraid of the gun under his chin as Sam.

                Dean looked like he nearly shot him over that alone, but Sam cocked the hammer on his pistol, and his attention shot back over to him. Betrayal was slow to seep onto his face, but once it was there, it was undeniable, raw and profound.

“You’re seriously choosing him over me?”

“Don’t even act like this is a choice— _you_ left me. I _needed_ you, and you left me! Did you really think I could put Lucifer back underground on my own? I _needed_ help! Did you really think I wasn’t going to get it from someone else?” Sam shouted, years of anger bubbling to the surface. “And you really think I’m going to trust you _now_ after you’ve pulled a gun on the one person who didn’t leave?”

                This time, the surprise on Dean’s face _was_ satisfying, and Sam relished in it.

“You don’t get to be my brother just whenever it’s convenient for you. You are, or you aren’t.” Sam’s throat burned, but he didn’t waver. “And you made your choice. So put it down.”

                Dean, for a moment, looked lost. Confused like he didn’t know where he’d gone wrong, what he’d done for them to end up there. But finally, he looked up at Sam, and his eyes were empty.

                He lowered the gun.

                Sam looked over at Jo and Castiel, then back to Gabriel. There was a question on his face, and Sam just nodded in response.

                Gabriel picked the ring off of War's corpse, and then they were gone.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

               Of all the things Sam and Gabriel silently agreed not to talk about, this was the one Sam was the most grateful for.

 

 

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

 

  **Late May**

                They had all of the rings. The only thing left to do was wait.

                It only took nine days, so many fewer than Sam wanted.

 

* * *

 

                It was nighttime wherever Gabriel’s apartment was, there was a fire in the hearth, and Sam was on the phone with Jo while Gabriel rustled around in the kitchen. Their conversation had been about nothing in particular—their favorite brands of beer, the occasional traded story, how much the weather sucked in the winter. Jo hadn’t asked about what Dean had seen him do, and Sam hadn’t ever offered.

                She was a good friend. Better than Sam deserved.

“It’s the worst,” Jo had complained, “I was up north with a Wendigo last month, and my car got stuck in all the snow. I had to—”

                _Snow._

                His mind fixated on the word, and suddenly, images were being shoved into mind, fast and relentless.

                _He was driving—snowing—_ _alone—looking up at a—cold—inside._

It was like his mind had glitched, sending him bouncing from scene to scene, too fast to ever get a good grip on what he was seeing, what he was doing.

                _Lucifer._

The name rattled around in his mind, the only thing he was certain of, and then he was back in Gabriel’s living room, lying on the floor and gasping for breath.

“Sam? Sam, what the hell happened?” he heard Gabriel call from the kitchen after a few moments.

                Through his phone, still clenched tightly in his hand, Jo was asking the same thing. He could hardly find the air in his lungs to answer either, but Jo was closer, so he just wheezed out,

“Hey, I’m going to have to call you back,” and hung up before she could ask anything else.

                Sam stared up at the ceiling, trying to catch his breath. What the _hell_ had that been? It was like… _his visions._ But it’d been close to a _decade_ since he’d had any of those, how the hell could he—?

“Sam? I heard a crash,” Gabriel repeated, closer this time. A moment later, he came into Sam’s field of vision, dropping down to his knees. “What the hell happened?”

“I don’t—I don’t know,” he managed, eyes wide. “Jo said something, and my head… I don’t know.”

                Gabriel leaned down, pressing two fingers to Sam’s temple. His face screwed up with concentration, morphing into worry just as quickly.

“Your brain’s soaked in glutamate.”

“Some of us haven’t taken biology in the past decade,” Sam reminded him, sucking in another breath.

                Gabriel stood, pulling Sam back up with him and setting him down onto the couch.

“It’s a fear chemical. Works into the whole fight-or-flight instinct.” He retreated back into the kitchen, emerging a few seconds later with a mug—green tea, Sam’s favorite. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

                Sam strained against the wave of fear that rose up higher the harder he tried to think back— _he saw Lucifer, broken glass, snow—_ snow.

“Snow,” he finally gasped out. “Jo said something about snow. And then I did… whatever the hell it was that happened. I—I saw things. It was like a vision, or a…”

_Dream._

                Sam’s heart froze into ice.

                Gabriel looked like his was doing just the same.

                Neither of them said anything for a long few minutes. Sam just set his mug down on the table—there was caffeine in green tea, he remembered—and Gabriel just sat down beside him, looking like the world was coming to an end.

                _It was_ , Sam’s mind unhelpfully reminded him.

“My mind was trying to show me something.” His words broke the silence like it was glass. “But I couldn’t see what it was. I have to see the rest.”

                Gabriel said nothing.

“I need to sleep,” Sam quietly realized, “Without whatever filter you’ve got on my head.”

                Gabriel’s eyes were fixed on the fire, distant. Sam wasn’t even sure he’d heard him. Only when he was about to repeat himself did Gabriel finally turn to him. He was acting like he’d snapped out of whatever funk he’d been in, but Sam could still he wasn’t at his baseline. He was talking too fast, moving too much, eyes snapping around the room like they didn’t know where to focus.

“Right. Right, I can do that. I think I’ve the stuff to throw together a sleeping spell somewhere around here if you can wait a couple minutes. Or I could skip straight to the source, suppress the parts of your brain that keep you awake. That might be—"

“No,” Sam interrupted, freezing for a moment when Gabriel’s eyes snapped to him. For a moment, he was afraid he’d been caught, but he kept talking anyways. “I need to do it the old-fashioned way.”

                It was only half of a lie, after all. He didn’t _need_ to do it the old-fashioned way, per se. There was nothing instinctual telling him that, at least. He just… wanted to. Wanted to fall asleep next to someone one last time. Wanted to have a few quiet moments before he went to war.

                Wanted to spend a little longer with Gabriel one last time.

                It was selfish, but just once, the world could wait a little longer.

                Sam couldn’t. He was out of time.

“How are you going to sleep _now?”_

“I just will,” he quietly replied.

                And he knew he would, just like he suddenly knew Lucifer had been right. It was an indescribable feeling, but he felt it with a certainty that went deeper than just his bones. Sam was going to come to Lucifer just as it had always been prophesized, even after years and years of telling himself the opposite, of running in the opposite direction at the mention of his name.

                Lucifer had told him he’d know when the time had come, and he’d been right.

                There was no time to run any longer.

                Sam drew in a sharp breath.

“Here’s fine,” he decided, shifting to lay down.

                He closed his eyes.

“You’re doing this now?” Gabriel asked, dread creeping into his voice. “Can’t it wait a while longer?”

                Sam just stared up at the ceiling. Every second he waited was a second someone else died because of him, because of what he’d done. He couldn’t lose steam now, not when this had been all he’d wanted for years. Longer, even.

                How could he even explain something like that? It was impossible.

                Or maybe it wasn’t—or maybe he was just as predictable as he’d always been—because one way or another, Gabriel was looking at him like he already knew the answer, like Sam may as well have stabbed him out of the gate.

                _Didn’t you always know it was going to end like this?_

“Sam,” Gabriel said, so quiet that he hardly heard. “You don’t have to do this. Our deal—we can call it off. I can—maybe I can find some way to hide you. Another time loop, an alternate dimension—something. I’ll find somewhere out of the way, and we can ride this out.”  

                Gabriel said it like he knew Sam’s answer already, and if the look on his face when Sam answered was any indication, he’d been right.

 

 

* * *

 

 

               

                The last time Sam fell asleep next to Gabriel was in late May, fingers running through his hair, the sound of music singing in his veins.

 

                

* * *

 

 

 

                _He was driving. On an icy highway. It was snowing. He was alone._

_Alone—why was he alone?_

The flashes of the future jerked to a stop before Sam could find the answer, and then question was shoved to the back of his mind. He was standing in a room with Lucifer, every detail crystal clear, and this time, he wasn’t so sure it was just a dream.

                This wasn’t like his other dreams.

                It was cold.

 _He_ was cold, colder then he’d ever been in his life. Even colder than the time he’d plunged through the ice into a lake in the middle of winter— _only Dean was going to pull him  out of this one. Not this time._ Sam gritted his teeth to keep them from chattering and looked at Lucifer.

                He was standing by the window, looking out with a pensive look on his face.

“I was wondering when you’d show up,” Lucifer said, and that was the first indication he’d even noticed Sam at all. Finally, he turned, a cool smile on his face. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s impolite to keep someone waiting?”

                Sam didn’t dignify him with an answer—not at first, at least. But the building around him was almost purposefully nondescript. A little crumbly, a little abandoned-looking, sure, but so were half the buildings on the continent. And _cold_ and _snowy_ weren’t really useful descriptors, given that it was the dead of winter already.

                Sam swallowed hard.

                Fighting his instincts every step of the way, he forced himself to join Lucifer over by the window. If he could just get a good look outside, maybe…

                Every step he took made him colder. By the time he’d made it next to Lucifer, his fingers were already losing feeling. He would’ve taken that happily any day if it meant he wouldn’t feel everything else, though. Standing so close to Lucifer was like standing naked in front of a black hole, exposed to the terrible, all-consuming glory of something no human was meant to understand.

“I don’t think I’m going to take etiquette lessons from someone whose default greeting is to rip out your throat,” he hoarsely replied, head nearly spinning with fear.

                Lucifer hummed, maybe amused, maybe annoyed. Sam couldn’t tell.

                He forced himself to take his eyes off Lucifer— _don’t, don’t take your eyes off him, he’ll get you the second you’re not paying attention—_ and looked outside.

                It was snowing in sheets, white smothering the world.

                Sam couldn’t see more than six inches out of the window.

                Fear gripped his heart, icy tight, and it took all of his will not to let it show.

“You’re still fighting it,” Lucifer sighed, looking out into the icy gale with him.  

“What are you talking about?”

                Lucifer flicked his hand, and on cue, the snow slowed. It was another few moments before it cleared up entirely, leaving nothing but grey. Everything outside was grey—no distinguishing one thing from another, nothing but a vast expanse of fog.

“If you wanted to know where we were, you would. You’re looking for excuses not to see things for what they are.” His eyes searched Sam’s face. Instead of his usual indifference, or that familiar lilting at-everyone-else’s-expense amusement, sincere curiosity made its why into Lucifer’s voice. “You’re afraid. Why?”

                Sam knew why.

                On some level, at least. It was something that’d been on his mind a while now, even before the clock had been two minutes to midnight.

                And now that he’d had to openly think about it, his answer sprung free from where he’d kept it trapped before he could stop it, drowned out too long to stay hidden any longer.

“If I know, then there’s nothing left to keep me from backing out,” he blurted out, and he hated the way Lucifer looked at him with nothing but sympathy.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me, Sam,” Lucifer told him, looking strangely… _vulnerable._ “I know you better than anyone, and I accept you—a _ll_ of you. That’s something your brother, your friends, even your _Pagan_ could never do. I know what it’s like to be you. No one else can say the same.”

                Lucifer sounded so sure of himself, so understanding, so _kind._ It terrified Sam in a way that seeing Lucifer destroy the world had never been able to do, because he’d never been so afraid that what Lucifer was telling him was true.

“You’d kill him,” Sam said, not entirely sure whether he was talking to himself or to Lucifer.

“I wouldn’t unless he made me,” he answered, almost instantly. “I won’t hurt your friends either. Leave the rings at home, and I’ll even promise that they get to grow old. No interference from angels, demons, all of them—nothing will happen to them until it’s their time.”

                Sam looked out the window. The cold hurt his lungs, but he still dragged in a sharp breath.

“Would I be able to see them?”

“If you wanted to.”

                Outside, the world got a little clearer.

 

  

* * *

 

 

                Sam lurched awake.

 _“Detroit,”_ he gasped.

                Somehow, Gabriel didn’t look surprised in the least.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

                Sam packed fast—mostly because there was nothing to pack, not really. One way or another, this would all be over by tomorrow. There was no need for extra outfits, no use for guns or knives—not against the Devil.

He layered on his thickest flannel and an extra jacket, dutifully tucking Ruby’s knife into the inside pocket of his innermost coat and slipped his Taurus handgun into the back of his jeans. It didn’t seem right to ride into battle without it, not after all the times it’d saved his ass over the years.

“I’m not coming,” he finally said, and Sam froze where he stood.

                Sam was sure he’d misheard or that there’d be some kind addendum, but none came. He turned around, eyes wide, but Gabriel wouldn’t look at him.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not supposed to be there, am I?” Gabriel ruefully asked, and Sam’s mind snapped back to his vision. _Alone. He’d been alone, even there._ “It’s supposed to be you and Lucifer, and just the two of you. That’s how it was written. He’d kill me if I came. And I just… I _can’t.”_

                Sam felt like he was falling through the floor.

                He wasn’t—he couldn’t… no, they were supposed to do this _together,_ but there was already something instinctive in him telling him otherwise, that, yes, he was going to go alone because Lucifer was right, had always been right—Detroit was between the two of them. It always had been, and always would be. And Gabriel—he _knew_ these things. He always seemed to know, long before Sam ever did.

                _He’s not coming with you. He never was._

“How long did you know?” Sam quietly asked, even though some part of him had always known too, hadn’t it?

Had known that no matter what he did, in the end, he’d face Lucifer alone. The signs had all been there laid out for him to see—the visions, in what Lucifer had told him, the way Gabriel had always acted when Sam asked about the final fight—but he’d ignored them, wanted so desperately to believe that he wouldn’t go out alone that he’d ignored all of them.

Gabriel’s silence was all the answer Sam needed.

                Sam turned.

“Is this going to end like he says?” Sam finally asked with a breaking voice, because that was the one thing he still didn’t know, the one thing his visions had never told him.

                _Or maybe they had, and he’d just ignored that too._

“I don’t know,” Gabriel finally answered, and somehow, that was worse than a simple _yes_ or _no._

Because that meant that there was still a chance Sam screwed this up all on his own.

 

 

* * *

 

 

                There was no goodbye. Not in words, at least.

                Sam’s eyes just met Gabriel’s at the door, and the same three words that’d been bouncing around in his head for the past week came dangerously close to clawing their way out of his throat.

                Sam left before they could.

                He tried to tell himself that he’d get the chance later, but it was a losing battle.

                And that--he just had to be alright with that. With knowing that if he pulled this off, he wouldn't ever get a chance to see what he'd done. Everyone else would move on without him, and he'd be Sam Winchester, the guy who'd saved the world once.

                That would be enough.

                That would be his love letter to the world, even if only a few people ever read it. 

 

 

* * *

 

               Sam regretted not saying it the second he was out the door, but he was already on the road. 

 

* * *

 

 

 

                Sam called when snow started to trickle from the sky. He’d been thinking on what he’d say the whole drive, and to be honest, he still had no idea.

                So he just called. This was a goodbye that was easier to make--they were both hunters. You had to be good at goodbyes. 

“Something’s happening,” Jo concluded, not even letting him get a word in edgewise.

                She already knew.

                Sam could tell.

“I turned on the weather channel this morning to make sure I was good for the drive to Denver, and it’s natural disaster bingo out here, Sam. And I… do you feel it too?”

                Sam leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. Sam knew it was a bad idea, he was _driving,_ but… there was something in him that knew the universe would get him where he was going, with or without his help. It was an intuition that was impossible to put into words, but…it was _there,_ unarguable. And if he focused a little harder, looked past that, there it was.

                _This is the end._

There was no point in beating around the bush.

“One way or another, this is it,” he breathed out.

“Yeah.” She laughed, a subdued sound. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

                Sam had nothing to say to that, and the two of them sunk into a quiet melancholy.

                It was only a fleeting thought, but Sam almost felt like they could’ve stayed that way forever, mutually lost in their own thoughts, only the sound of the other breathing to remind them they were in good company. But snowflakes were starting to pile up on his windshield, and he was pulled out.

                Sam forced a smile, even though she couldn’t see it.

“Thanks. For everything.”

                _For not running away. For dragging me to that bar. For answering when I called._

“Don’t go talking at me like this is goodbye, Winchester,” Jo shot back, but her voice was heavy. “What’s the fun in tropical retirement if I have to enjoy it all on my own?”

“In the swim-up pool bar, obviously,” he joked, and despite everything, she actually laughed.

“Yeah. I’m thinking Puerto Rico?”

“Book a ticket,” Sam laughed.

“Make it two, and we’re all set. _”_

                He closed his eyes, and for a second, he could see it. He could see the light at the end of the tunnel turned into a reality. It looked almost exactly like what Jo was selling.

_An ocean rolling against snow white sand. The tropical sun on his face. An icy drink in his hand._

                The only difference was that Gabriel was with him too. Warm, golden, grinning at Sam like he was brighter than the sun in the sky, and Sam would tell him.

“Three,” Sam murmured.

                Even if he never saw it, even if it was just a pipe dream, he had to have something to fight for. 

“Three it is,” she agreed _._ She paused, already sounding resigned to the answer she had to know was coming, but asking anyways, "Don’t guess I could get you to tell me where you’re going?”

                Sam’s smile was tight.

“Not a chance.”

“Then give them hell, Sam.” Jo’s voice steeled, leaving no room for him to argue. “And I’ll see you on the other side.”

                _Whenever that is._

 

 

* * *

  

 

                Two miles down the road, the _Welcome to Detroit_ sign was in Sam’s rearview mirror.

                Another ten, and Sam’s car came to a sputtering stop in front of a decrepit brick building. Sam tried once, twice to get the engine back up and running, but it refused.

                And when he stepped out of the car to pop the hood, a shiver ran down his spine, the hairs on his neck standing on edge. 

                 _Someone was watching him._

                His eyes flicked up to the building looming above, all the way up to the top floor. He couldn’t see through the windows through the snow, but somehow he knew just what was waiting for him on the other side.

                _Who_ was waiting for him.

                Sam gave his car one last look, running his hand over the hood, and then steeled himself and turned to the building.

                The door creaked open, like it’d just been waiting for him for show, and Sam only paused for a moment before he walked inside.

 


	12. Chapter 12

 

**May 27th, 2015**

 

                Sam felt Lucifer long before he saw him.

                Lucifer was the music playing at the edges of his sense, the flats and sharps fighting against each other, was the chords steeped in aged melancholy and arpeggios played too fast for his ears to follow.

                It hurt his ears, didn’t make sense, and then Sam was listening, picking out patterns in the discord. Something in him was waking up, and he was afraid of what it was.

                His fingers curled tight around the rings in his pocket. He didn’t let go, even when they started to burn his hand.

                It kept him from noticing the cold.

                _Think of the beach,_ Sam reminded himself, trying to drown out the music that was playing. Playing for _him._ He grimaced. _Remember why you’re here._

                The dreams only got so much right.

                But when Sam looked up again, it looked just like what he’d seen in his sleep, all the way down to the snow he saw falling in torrents through the window.

                Lucifer was looking out too, just like he’d been when Sam had seen him last.

“You brought them,” Lucifer sighed, disappointment seeping into every word.

                He turned around, and the music came to a crescendo. Everything about Lucifer was _wrong,_ sending Sam’s nerves alight with cries of _wrongwrongwrong._

                _Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic._

                Sam panicked.

                The rings didn’t even make it out of his pocket before they were ripped from his hand, flying across the room into Lucifer’s hand. His fist curled around them and the creak of metal echoed through the room. When he opened his hand, the rings were a jumbled mess of warped metal.

                _Useless._

                Sam took an unsteady step back, but when he turned around, the door was gone. There was no way out, nowhere to go but to Lucifer.

                He’d failed.

                Sam froze, falling to his knees.

                Lucifer sighed, shaking his head ruefully, and crossed the room for Sam.

“I was hoping we could make this easy.” His eyes were almost sad as he searched Sam’s face. “But this always ends the same way, so I suppose it doesn’t matter one way or another.”

“Fuck you,” Sam spat, but his voice betrayed him, weak and frail.

_Just like him. He’d failed before he could even try, lost the one chance he’d had at saving the world, lost the one chance he’d had to make things right. He’d failed._

                Sam’s heart twisted in his chest, tears stinging at the edges of his eyes. Still, he refused to let them fall—one last symbol of defiance.

                After everything, after all the trust Loki had put in him, after how hard they’d both fought to get here, he’d failed. There would be no beach trip, no retirement, no chance to tell him all the things that’d been rattling around his mind. Sam would never see another sunrise or sunset or see his brother or anyone else again—not as himself.

                Sam was worse than dead.

                But if this was the last chance he got, then he had to take it.

 _“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,”_ Sam chanted, reaching out for Gabriel, picturing him. Thinking of him for the last time. _“I fucked up. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I fucked up.”_

Gabriel said nothing, but that was alright.

As long as he’d heard. As long as he knew.

“Story of my life,” a voice echoed. It took Sam a moment to realize the voice wasn’t his—or Lucifer’s either. His eyes shot up, first to Lucifer, watching as his face curled with remorse and then behind him, and _it was him. He was there_ , dagger in hand, eyes violent gold and body tensed like he was ready for a fight. Gabriel’s other hand was reaching out towards him, eyes on him. “Sam, please. Just come with me—we can get away from all of this. Just take my hand.”

                And Sam almost did.

“Hello, brother,” Lucifer sighed, and that stopped him short in his tracks.

                Brother?

Oh. _Oh._

All of the pieces clicked. Balthazar. His feelings towards his family. How he’d always known what came next. Why he’d hidden his influence on Sam’s soul from Castiel. Even the name he’d told Sam to call him had been a hint, and Sam had been blind to it. Because he’d wanted to be blind. Because realizing he was an angel would’ve come with a whole new set of complications, a whole new set of suspicions to get over.

                Sam had seen what he’d wanted to see and ignored the rest.

“Surprise,” Gabriel dryly told him, catching the shock that spread relentlessly over Sam’s face, his lips curling up into a humorless smile.

                Lucifer rounded Sam, planting himself firmly between him and Gabriel.

 “I wish you hadn’t come,” Lucifer murmured, shaking his head.

“Why not? Haven’t you missed me?” Gabriel shot back, edging towards him.

“I respected your decision to leave. I don’t see why you can’t respect this.”

                Sam’s hand drifted towards the Ruby’s knife, still in his pocket.

                Lucifer’s focus was fully on Gabriel. If he could just distract him, give Gabriel enough time to move in, then…

“How the hell can you say that?” Gabriel snapped. “This is a _grudge match!_ This is between you and Michael, and the two of you had to go and drag _all of us_ into it! I had to run away because I couldn't stand watching you fight. I  _left_ everything, just to have a chance at getting away."

"You turned your back on  _me--_ on us to play Pagan with a bunch of fools and cheats who wouldn't know a true God if he smote them," Lucifer snarled, stepping forwards. 

                Sam worked his way onto his feet, slow, cautious.

"I wouldn't have had to if you would've just played nice with all of Daddy's toys," Gabriel answered, every bit as venomous.

"And so, what? You've had a change of heart?" Lucifer eyes were on Gabriel's dagger, entirely away from Sam. All he needed was a _second,_  and he could give Gabriel an opening. "Or did you just decide you had a favorite too?"

                Loki's lips pressed tight together, eyes flicking briefly back to Sam.

"You've always had a soft spot for him. Don't think I never knew about your little time loop ordeal," Lucifer told him, voice growing mocking. "I  _showed_ you all those tricks. You couldn't think I didn't keep all the best ones to myself."

                 Sam's hand hovered over his jacket, eyes on Lucifer.

"You love him, don't you?" Lucifer asked, and at  _that,_ Sam froze.

                 Gabriel went just as stiff, eyes going wide like he'd been caught.

"Sam Winchester, the one toy you couldn't have. The only thing important enough to make you break centuries of silence." Lucifer sighed. "It was never going to work out for you, and you still tried anyways. I admire that, stupid as it is."

                 Sam felt like he'd swallowed a ball of static, frozen in time.

                 Lucifer turned around, and for a moment, Sam thought it was to look at him, but sadness surfaced on his face and it struck Sam that it was just so he didn't have to look at Gabriel.

"Don't make me kill you." 

                Gabriel hesitated, and for a terrifying, selfish moment, Sam was both afraid and wished he'd leave. But then Gabriel's eyes slid over Lucifer's shoulder to Sam, and Sam saw it. That Lucifer had been right. That Gabriel wasn't going anywhere because even after everything, even after knowing how the story as going to end, even with Sam as fucked up and broken as he was, Gabriel fallen in love with him anyways.

"Cry me a fucking river," Gabriel said before Sam could get out a word, and Lucifer was turning, bristled, shoulders stiff, and Sam saw his chance-- _his only chance,_ because no matter what, he was sure that there was nowhere to go but fighting from here.

                Sam lunged, knife sinking in deep—through diaphragm, liver, the bottom of a lung. It would’ve killed anything else painfully, made them bleed out long and slow. But Lucifer wasn’t a demon, never had been. The knife did nothing, and then Sam was flying across the room, hitting the wall with a hard _crack._

                Blurred, dizzy, he tried to get up and fell forwards. It was all he could to lift his head, just barely make out two shapes fighting, slashing.

                He passed out, just a few seconds, and when his eyes flickered back open, it was already over.

                Gabriel’s face was white. He took a shambling half-step back, eyes dropping downwards, but Lucifer didn’t take advantage of his sudden hesitation, just stood stone still, rooted to where he was standing. Sam couldn’t see from the angle he was at, didn’t know what was happening, but the moment Gabriel’s eyes, wide in shock, lifted to meet his over Lucifer’s shoulder, he knew.

                And then Lucifer took an odd, half-step forwards, hands coming up at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them, and Sam saw it.

                The ornately carved handle of a dagger.

                The rest of it was burned in Gabriel’s chest.

                _No._

                 Something in Sam snapped, and gold filled it. He was glowing, burning, alight, reaching out to find Lucifer, to stop him, to kill him, to do _something—_ and in the half second of surprise where Lucifer turned to him, frozen in shock, Gabriel wrenched the dagger right back out of his chest and buried in his brother’s neck.

                Sam thought Gabriel looked at him one last time. He really did.

                But then his archangel’s hand raised, and Sam was flying back. He hit the window, glass shattering behind him, and then he was falling.

                Above him, the world exploded with light.

 

 


	13. Epilogue

 

**October, 2015**

 

                It was well past one and the bar was empty, but that was alright. Sam preferred it that way, really.

                Drunkenly, he looked down into his empty glass, irritation scratching at the what little sobriety he was still clinging onto. If he was drunk enough to tell it was empty, then he wasn’t drunk enough yet.

                _Gabriel could just snap his fingers and it’d fill right back up._

                He was only drunk enough when he didn’t think about Gabriel any longer—and for the most part, that meant passing out. So Sam supposed that was his goal.

                He glared down at his glass and, almost mockingly, snapped his fingers.

                _He’d tell you to sober up._

                Anger flared up in Sam, and he snapped his fingers again.

                _He’d tell you to answer one of the thousand fucking missed calls on your phone._

                Sam gritted his teeth and snapped.

                _He’d tell you to get your shit together, get over yourself._

                His anger burned into fury—at himself, at everyone, at the whole fucking world—and he _snapped_ and dropped his head into his hands, a choked sound escaping him.

                It took him a long time to pull himself back together, but he did, and at long last, finally looked up.

                His glass was full.

                And when he looked back down, gold gossamer threads wound up and down his fingers, muted and weak, but _there_.

Sam’s glass crashed to the floor, shattering into a thousand pieces as he sprang onto his feet, but he didn’t notice.

_It’s not over. He's not gone, not yet. It's not over._

 

                He reached out, and inside him, the gold shone.

 

**Author's Note:**

> special thanks!!  
> -dmsilvis AKA my wonderful longsuffering artist!! it was really amazing to work with someone who knew what the hell they were doing (AKA not me rip) and her art turned out amazing, so go give her some love!!  
> -purpleologist- my longsuffering editor!! thank you!! for reading my fic!! as i rewrote it over and over!! extensively changing things each time!!


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